Branded With These Wings:: Revised
by CasXxGrippedXxMeXxTight
Summary: Dean has never met his equal. Never met a woman who's seen and been through what he has. Or share his love of classic cars and classic rock. Until he met Kat. No last name and she wishes no past. When they cross paths, their lives change forever. Revised.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, so I decided to post the edits as a completely different story. It'll just be easier for everyone. So. Please review! Let me know if you like how I'm changing things. I love you so so so much!**

**-Han**

The black-haired woman ducked down quickly as the knife flew past the space where her head had been just a minute before. Her ice-blue eyes roamed the graveyard until they rested on a figment of an old man with a bag of knives at his side. He was smiling broadly, and the girl stood and flipped over the open grave in time to avoid another knife. As she soared over the hole, she allowed a string of salt to land on the bones. She quickly grabbed her shotgun from beside her once she landed, and shot at the ghost. It disappeared in a puff of smoke and she couldn't help but be thankful for rock salt. She turned and quickly doused the bones with kerosene. Just before she lit the match, the spirit threw another knife. This time it embedded itself into her shoulder, the glinting blade piercing the jacket she wore. She let out a slight scream and wondered for a moment why Blake wasn't covering her. She shook herself violently, trying to force her mind off of it. She should be over this part of it already; he'd been dead for months.

Her process halted for a moment, as she thought of his lifeless stare and slack grip. She wondered absently why she didn't feel much pain over the thought of his death, more fear that no one was there to watch her back. She didn't miss the bar fights or drunken slurs, and she didn't miss his many debts to the loyal patrons of the Roadhouse. In general, she just didn't miss him at all. Odd, seeing as he once fell under the title 'boyfriend.'

She was pulled violently back to the present as another knife whizzed past her. She lit the match quickly and watched, transfixed, as the flames consumed the rotting bones. The image of the ghost flickered threateningly, like film held in place too long, before burning away. She flinched back from the screams and wondered if he'd always been that loud.

She gripped the hilt of the blade, jutting from her shoulder, and breathed a sigh when she found it only a quarter inch deep. It might need a butterfly stitch, but it was nothing serious. Still, pulling the sharp blade from her flesh made a cry of pain rip through her throat.

When she held the knife in her hand, she tore a strip from the bottom of her shirt with it. She tied the bandage around the open wound with her teeth, glad that it hadn't bled much. She sighed at the thought of the open wound and glanced at her callused hands. 'The Aftermath,' she thought disdainfully, picking up her shovel and filling the hole.

An hour later, when her back ached and her forehead was well past sweaty, she packed up her weapons and checked the cut. It was bleeding slowly, no more than a few drops a minute, and the makeshift wrap caught it. She mounted her bike and allowed herself a smile as it thrummed beneath her.

Then, the kickstand was up and her hair was flying behind her. The night blended around her until she couldn't be sure what was real anymore, and her thoughts wandered. She would have to stop thinking of Blake, she told herself firmly. What would he think, if he saw how distracted she was?

She knew exactly what he would _say. _He'd said it enough times.

"_Kat! Pay attention! You can't go off into la-la land when a demon's trying to kill you! Why did I ever fall for you, you idiot?" _He'd yell at her and then grow softer through the words, as if what he was telling her was really insightful and revealing to him. And she would say that she loved him as though she meant it. But she didn't.

It wasn't him so much as it was a combination of both her and him. He was loud, obnoxious, violent with other men, and too attached to her. She was quiet for the sake of watching instead of playing the game, opinionated amongst those she trusted to some extent, and distant. The last one she hadn't meant to be, but she was. It was something she'd come to terms with, and Blake hadn't.

At least he never tried to call her 'Kitty'. Too many people did that, and it was only afforded to a few. Blake was not one of them.

Of course, people thought it odd when she introduced herself as Kat and nothing else, but as far as she knew, she had no last name. And figuring it out would mean revisiting a past she'd prefer not to remember. Her twin, Jamie, on the other hand, had wanted to _know. _So shortly after John Winchester had left them on the side of the road, claiming that his boys were in trouble, Jamie left to find out as much as he could. She hadn't heard from him in over a year. Nor had she heard from John. She didn't think too much of it, from either of them. As far as she knew, Jamie had quit the life and John was back with the family.

And she wouldn't intrude on either of them.

After that, she'd had Blake. And he'd been okay. The closest thing she'd ever had to a female friend had left her to follow her brother. She'd gotten word that Jenna had died three months after that. She was even less saddened by this than she was when Blake died.

Well, died probably wasn't the proper term. Drained by vampires was more appropriate.

Nowadays, Kat worked at the bar, putting up with drunk hunters and civilians alike and Ash's constant stories of how exactly he'd bested the Yellow-eyed demon when he'd tried to blow up his 'baby'… Tried being the operative word, because no one messed with his bar if he was around.

Most of the patrons knew it had been a whole lot of luck for Ash and whole lot of help from the thirty or so hunters that happened to be in that night. But, of course, Ash never did tell it that way.

Ash didn't know that she still hunted, or rather, didn't want to know. He'd rather think that she was taking long drives to clear her head, and came back the way she did because of *insert Ash's tall tale of the week here*. She figured that was only so he didn't have to be the one to tell Singer that she'd directly disobeyed him. Though, she'd argue that it was a friendly suggestion that she quit hunting. After what happened with Blake, Bobby didn't think it fit for her to run around half-cocked without a partner.

She hadn't spoken to him in the two months since Blake's death, and she wouldn't be surprised if he thought she'd been burned on her own pyre. It wasn't as if she did it on purpose, but most hunters took lack of communication for lack of life.

She drove to the bar, and walked around to the small shack just behind it. She dropped off her duffel, taking the time once inside to pick up her sketchbooks. She really ought to put the medical equipment in there, she thought to herself, looking over the inside. The metal-sheet walls were covered with hunts- newspaper clippings and post-it notes all trying to connect to the center. But nothing ever did. All dead ends and disappointments. She closed the door behind her and walked into the bar. Her body ached and her eyes were heavy… Sleep would be welcome. Very welcome.

She walked easily into the Roadhouse, dodging Ash as he was flung by one of the patrons. He jumped up, a grin on his face and a glint in his eyes.

"You watch yourself Tanner, I'll get you back!" He shouted, his southern twang prominent. He saluted Kat as she walked in and noticed the wrapped cloth around her arm with distaste. Instead of saying anything, he muttered something about headstrong dumbasses, and led the way to his office.

The little sign proudly proclaimed 'Dr. Badass is In' and she thought of it as 'home'. She'd long ago gotten used to the smell of old sheets and week-old pizza. She folded herself onto the couch and sat quietly while Ash handed her a bottle of whiskey and the med-kit. "The whiskey's for the cut," he said as she brought the bottle to her lips.

"Ash…" she complained as he took the bottle from her, wincing as it jolted her arm. A small trickle of blood was seeping from under the tie.

"Shuttup," he said gruffly, untying the piece of shirt and tossing it aside. He appraised the cut and doused it with whiskey without a word. Her gasp of pain and twitch of muscles were enough to make him smirk. "Be more careful then."

"Bastard," she growled, a hint of a smile on her face. Ash grinned to himself, knowing he wouldn't get much else out of her. Smiles had been hard to come by for her, and he took every moment he could to tease her openly.

"I got people comin' here tonight, be on your best behavior," he said sarcastically.

"Who?"

"Just…friends. Haven't seen 'em in these parts for a while."

"Would it happen to be that Prettyboy and Batman you keep talking about?" she asked, her eyebrows lifting.

"They don't exactly know I call them that," he said with a nervous glance.

"Hunters?" she asked, jerking suddenly as Ash nicked her with the needle slightly. "Go," she said at his unspoken question. She hissed sharply as the needle pierced her skin. "Just a butterfly."

"Gotcha. And yeah, they are. So try not to make these ones enemies," he said.

"I can't help it that people don't like me," she said softly, her eyes screwed shut from the pain. She felt her blood rush through her veins and the steady thrumming of her heart and knew she was alive. That was the upside to moments like these. If you could feel the pain, you were feeling something. And something was infinitely better than nothing.

"You could try to be nice?" he asked, glancing at her face.

"Meh."

"And you wonder why you don't have many friends," Ash grumbled. "Does that hurt too much?" he asked as he poked through her skin again.

"S'okay. Pain's good," she mumbled, a little louder than she'd intended to.

"Kinky." A deep male voice threaded through her hazy thoughts and her eyes snapped open.


	2. Chapter 2

**EDITED! I should have three up within the week.**

**-Han**

Chapter 2

The door closed with a click behind her and Kat felt a small blush work its way onto her cheeks. She had to struggle to keep her eyes on Ash, as they ached to look at the man. His voice was simply that commanding. It had a deep timbre, the kind that was somewhere between gravel and the purr of an engine. The kind of voice that she knew women fantasized about. It demanded not only attention, but a lusty, wanting need.

Ash smiled a greeting at him, and Kat had to remind herself that another person was supposed to be with him. She turned slowly to the now closed door, absently looking at the newcomers.

Her eyes focused enough to take in the speaker. He was tall, maybe 6' 1". His hair was either dark or light brown, it was hard to tell in this light, and his eyes were a vibrant green. Even from here she could see them. A brown leather jacket hung off his shoulders and she could only guess the strength of the muscles beneath it. His face was angularly carved with high cheekbones and cupid's bow lips.

Kat was suddenly glad that she'd never really felt anything remotely sexual for anyone, and that lust was not something she had had to deal with. _Because_, she thought, absently wincing as Ash tied the stitches, _he is sex personified._

She'd never had thoughts even remotely resembling that, simply because of her background. But now, now she was imagining how soft his skin would be, should she run her fingertips over it. She was wondering exactly what words it would take for her opinions to change.

She was wondering if his back was as muscular as she thought it would be, and if she could get him to grin, and what that grin would be like… would it make her heart stutter. She was wondering all the things she told herself she would never even think about again. She was wandering into dangerous paths and winding roads that could only hurt her.

"Hey," a soft voice broke her out of her thoughts and she was proud enough to note that she'd only been lost in thought for a few awkward seconds, while the two men had been sizing her up. She shook herself, remembering there was a second man, the one who'd spoken so gently. She gave a small nod in greeting while looking him over.

This man was taller than the first by maybe three inches and leaner, with a softer face and warm eyes. She could practically see the ease in which he could fall into a pout. His eyes were either hazel or a very murky blue, but it was hard to tell from his position at the door. His hair was a dark brown and much longer than the former's. It parted at his forehead and hung past his ears.

Not only were they two of the most striking hunters she'd ever seen, but they both looked remarkably like John. Not in an overbearing way, either.

There was the strong jaw line of the taller one, and the broad shoulders of both. Kat tilted her head slightly, seeing beyond the physical for a moment. Both men reminded her of John in that they had haunted eyes. Like her.

She jumped slightly from the awkward cough Ash gave in her ear and realized she'd yet to say anything. She took a moment to look over the new butterfly stitch and give a thumbs-up to Ash.

"You just gonna stand there?" she asked, looking back to the awkwardly standing men. She motioned for them to walk further inside and prepared to stand. "Do you want me gone, Ash?" she asked, not really caring what the others thought.

She caught herself before her eyes could slide over to the shorter one, berating herself harshly for even wondering about him. Her face fell into the mask of a hunter, her eyes hard and her expression blank. She was looking at Ash, her posture not indicating any of the pain she felt from the wound on her shoulder.

Her body language practically shouted hostile and unbreakable as if to say, 'I'm a real woman. I don't even wince at a knife wound. Come, cut me again so I can laugh at your feeble attempts to draw my attention.' Of course, it still hurt like a bitch, and she didn't really want another anytime soon, but they didn't have to know that.

"I think you should stay," Ash said softly. She shot him a curious glance and slid back into the couch. "Kat, meet Sam and Dean." Kat looked at Ash with harsh eyes, practically screaming at him. All she could think about was John. They had a relation to him, his sons, maybe? They could tell her where he was.

Her eyes darkened as she decided she'd rather not know. She'd rather be ignorant and pretend he was living the rest of his life playing eighteen holes on the green instead of still hunting or worse.

"So, you boys had somethin' for me?" Ash asked a little too brightly, rubbing his hands together for emphasis.

"Well, like we told you on the phone, we think it's a demon or something corporeal," Sam said. His voice was softer, the tone almost vulnerable. Childlike. Kat glanced at Ash, sure that this was the one he referred to as 'Prettyboy.'

"And it's been kidnappin' kids?" Ash asked, looking pointedly to Kat, to be sure she was paying attention. "What're the areas?"

"Northern Maine and this is only the second time it's done it," Dean said, looking over a file that Sam had brought in the room.

"When was the first?" Kat asked, her voice not the soft, gentle one she had used with Ash. This one meant business. Dean looked at her for a long time, like he was sizing her up. Unspoken hostility hovered in his eyes and his body was tense. He didn't trust her, but that was okay. She didn't trust many people either.

"The parents were murdered and the children taken sometime in the fall of 1992," Sam said, not looking up from his notes or even acknowledging that she was there.

Kat was quiet, her eyes on the floor. Jack Daniels bottles and candy wrappers littered old hardwood and area rugs. Cut-up pieces of gun magazines in 'orderly' stacks along a far wall and the furniture crammed in the rest of the space. She was lost in thought, but was quickly pulled back down to Earth.

"We were thinkin' of headin' up that way sometime tomorrow," Dean was saying, looking pointedly at Ash only. There was no mistaking the predatory glint in his eyes. He was the boss, and he was keeping this job in the family. She imagined they did that a lot.

"I have to go," she whispered. Sam looked up then, as though expecting her to stand and walk into the bar for something she needed. She remained seated.

"No," Dean said immediately. He had seen the sudden determination in her body language and knew what she wanted. Kat was quiet for all of a minute, until her demeanor sagged. Her shoulders slumped inward slightly and her eyes were on the ground.

"I have to. It's for a friend," she said. She looked up and met Sam's eyes, sensing he would be easier to break. "She was part of the first family," she said.

Dean's eyes narrowed, unsure whether to believe her or not. Sam was simply giving her the 'look.' The one he usually reserved for the victims they were interrogating. The look that spoke of safety and assurance.

Ash was watching her with both surprise and apprehension. It wasn't like her to divulge anything willingly. She must have some hope left after all. Or maybe it was just vengeance.

"She escaped along with her brother, Blake, and I traveled with them for a while. She'd been looking for the demon for years. She died about a year and a half ago," she said, her posture strong enough to assert herself as a hunter and bowed enough to make her look like she was grieving. "Her name was Jenna," she added. _Make it personal_, she told herself sharply. She'd been doing this long enough to know how you convinced someone of your lie.

At least they hadn't known her long enough to see her tell-the almost imperceptible twitch of the first two fingers of her right hand. She took a deep breath and prepared to continue.

"She devoted herself to finding it, to avenge her family. It was all she could ever think about. I think it ended up making her reckless, and she slipped up on a hunt. And she died." Her voice cracked just right at the end, providing the boys with the only indication that she was 'hurting.'

Dean was looking _almost_ guilty, squirming uncomfortably in his seat. Sam's eyes were huge and sad.

"When she was dying, I promised her I'd find it. That I'd kill it for her," she said proudly, as if it were now her life's mission. Ash was looking at her with something in between pride and sadness. He remembered when she couldn't lie to save her life and faking emotions was just as hard as touching the real ones.

There was a silent moment of deliberation, one where the quiet was suffocating. Kat was now looking at Dean, and there was no fear in her posture or in her eyes. Just determination. She would show up even if they didn't formally invite her.


	3. Chapter 3

**EDITED! Thanks to CDEditor and her husband for all the help, you guys are awesome. I'm currently working very very hard on 4-6, and if it works well, those should be up by the end of the week. Thanks for reading!**

**-Han**

Dean cursed in his mind, but resolved, that if she went with them, they could at least keep an eye on her.

"Dean, we can't just-" Sam didn't even have to finish the sentence.

"Fine," he all but grunted. His eyes were on the floor and his shoulders were bowed inward, as if he carried a great weight there. "But you follow my orders, understood?" he barked.

"Of course," she said. 'Provided they are the right orders,' she thought with a wry grin.

Dean wasn't sure whether to believe her. She seemed sincere, but something about her story made him feel like he had an itch at the back of his mind that needed to be scratched. But he could see her resolve to follow them; it reminded him of Sammy's look right after the Yellow-eyed Demon killed Jessica.

Dean didn't like emotional people. They made him nervous. She hadn't cried, though, which said something for her. She looked emotionally strong enough to get through this without a real slip. He could respect that much about her.

"So, you're really a hunter?" Dean asked skeptically. He didn't see it. She looked too soft and demure. She was slipping into a black leather jacket that sat familiarly on her shoulders. He hadn't seen much of her arms when he walked in (he'd been too intent for her to leave) but he could tell they were slim. Her neck carried that elegant curve that made him think of people who didn't know what work was.

Her body itself was that petite and slim type figure. His eyes lingered over her breasts and he guessed she was a C at best. He was usually pretty good at guessing. Her legs were curvy enough for him to be interested and her hips enough to make him happy. From what he could tell, the body was soft, instead of the callused and scarred body of a hunter. But he couldn't be sure with the layers she wore.

Her face was pale, and dark hair floated around it, looking snarled from wind. A thin sheen of sweat covered her forehead, but it had been warm in Ash's room. Her lips were shapely and a dusky pink. Not Angelina full, but not thin by any means. He thought they were the kind of lips that seemed made for a sarcastic smirk.

Then he looked in her eyes and gulped. The cool, icy blue reminded him of a warrior. She'd seen hard things, that was obvious. Her eyes were haunted, the kind of unspoken sadness and heartbreak that he thought only he knew of. It reminded him of looking in the mirror after Hell, before he learned to hide it better.

"Did you think I was having Ash stitch me up for kicks and giggles?" she asked, her head tilting to the side. Her hair was long and dark, slightly curly strands hanging across her eyes.

Ash stuck his fingers in his ears like he was trying to dig out a big hunk of wax. Dean could tell he just didn't want to hear what was going on.

"Lalalalallalala, I can't hear you! If I can't hear you Bobby can't hurt me!" he said loudly, his head shaking back and forth. His mullet swayed from side to side as he did.

"Ash, calm down. I'll stop by there first," Kat consoled. "This one's big, I'll need his advice."

"You know Bobby?" Dean asked, becoming even more cautious. He didn't particularly like people who knew his family; it made him slightly suspicious. He didn't know who he could trust these days.

"Most hunters this side of Kansas City know Bobby Singer. Don't sound so surprised," she said, her tone becoming harsher. He blinked, reluctantly accepting her explanation.

After a brief conversation with Ash, Kat led the way out back. She quickly unlocked the shack, stepping over scattered DVD's and books. Ash's office hadn't been big enough for her to simply move in. She stared at the walls for a moment, before snatching random articles and clippings from the web to take with her. She grabbed her duffels, one full of 'hunting' clothes and the other full of weapons. She did a brief check of her weapons, shifting uncomfortably under the watchful eyes of Sam and Dean.

"Do you want to come in?" she asked, waving an arm around. She ejected and checked a clip of ammo before sliding it back into place.

After hesitating just a moment, she snatched a Wii.

"You're taking a Wii?" Sam asked, thinking she must be playing some sort of joke. "Who goes on a hunt with a game system? Hunters usually get enough exercise chasing after something… or being chased, for that matter."

She glared at him. "What do you got in your duffel bag? And what do _you _do all night?"

"Uh...sleep?" Sam asked. Dean snorted, unable to tell if he was being sarcastic or not, and knowing it didn't matter; it was funny just the same. Kat didn't respond, or even indicate that she'd heard him. "I'm guessing you have all the information we need?" Sam asked nervously as he eyed the walls.

"Yea, I keep my promises," she said darkly. She reached across Dean, who had moved to stand to the left of her, and picked up a crooked knife.

"What's that?" Dean asked, eyeing the wicked looking blade.

"Ritualistic athamé. Used in Historical and Neo-Wiccan cultures to channel spiritual energy. If the demon is…low enough in the ranks, shall we say, it can even kill them. I wanted to find a knife that actually killed demons, but they're near impossible to locate," she said. "Now I'm fairly sure that you can channel other supernatural beings through the blade, you know, put them in something else? But that's only because their spiritual energy is…more palpable than others," she tried to explain, palming the blade and slipping it into a sheath and in the bag.

"So you kill two meat suits?" Dean asked in shock.

"No," Kat said quickly. "I could…draw it across your forearm, and say a phrase in Latin or a Wiccan spell and the demon would still come out. In other cultures, they'd put the demon into someone meant for death, like a convicted criminal, and then kill them both with some other means. Two birds, one stone type deal."

Sam and Dean nodded their understanding and she zipped up the bag. The three walked back out and into the lot. The wraparound parking lot housed her bike and his car, and both owners took a moment to admire the other's vehicle.

"Nice bike," Dean said truthfully, looking over the Harley.

"Nice car," she replied, looking over it. Dean saw some recognition in her eyes—another itch in the back of his mind to worry about. He knew by the time this hunt was done, he would probably have no hair. It scared him. "John'd be proud you took such good care of it," she said.

"You knew him too?" Dean asked almost sarcastically.

"He and Bobby saved my life," she said slowly, inching further away from him. "John couldn't stick around much after that, because he had kids…but, uh, we hunted together for about a year. That was back in…'05," she said, looking between the two. Dean looked almost betrayed, and Sam just looked confused.

If there was one thing Dean hated, it was being lied to. So this was where his father was when he and Sam were looking for him?

"He left me on the side of the road with my brother, saying he had to help his…help his sons. I haven't heard from him since," she said, shifting to alleviate the pull on her scars from carrying the bags.

"Well, he's dead," Dean said, harsher than he intended. She stepped back, as if afraid. Her gasp was clear and audible in the night. Sam sent an accusing glance at his brother and stepped toward her slightly.

"W-What?" she asked, her voice coming out unsure for the first time in a long time.

"You didn't know?" Sam asked, his eyes soft.

"No," she said, her voice suddenly colder. Her eyes had hardened, and her posture stiffened. "But I suppose I shouldn't be surprised."

She adjusted her saddle bags and mounted her bike. Her shoulders hunched for a singular moment, one that the boys swore they imagined. Then she sent them a biting glare.

"I'll meet you at Bobby's," she all but growled. She gripped the throttle and tore out of the parking lot, leaving the boys behind.

"Why did you have to do that, Dean?" Sam asked accusingly.

"What the hell- Sam, are you telling me you're not the least bit suspicious?" he asked, his eyebrows rising.

"Of course I am. She knows people we know, that itself is bad. But can't we give her the benefit of the doubt until Bobby clears it up?" He asked, glaring at his older brother. Dean sighed loudly, a weight settling on his shoulders.

"Did you see her eyes?" He asked suddenly.

"Yeah, why?" Sam asked, blinking from the sudden change of topic.

"They looked familiar," he said finally, unlocking the car and dumping her bags in the trunk. He slipped into the driver's seat, staring straight ahead, his mind blank, save the girl he was suddenly very sure would haunt him.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean watched in something like amazement as the man he'd come to think of as his father held onto Kat from his chair. Her small frame wound around him, trying to find the best way to hold on as Bobby struggled to keep his composure.

"Thought you were dead." The gruff voice reached the pair and they cast each other looks.

"Me? Never," she answered, and Dean was shocked to hear a smile behind the words.

"But Blake…?"

"Didn't make it," she answered with her head in his shoulder. Dean looked at Sam cautiously. Both could tell they weren't supposed to hear that. "Have you heard from Jamie?"

"No…" Bobby was holding something back, and all of them could tell, but he didn't say anything else.

"Boys." He said in greeting, and then did a double take. "You know her?" He asked before pointing at Kat, who was now standing carefully near Dean. "And you didn't tell me? I thought this girl was friggin' dead and you didn't think to let me know?" His voice was that kind of calm that made you feel guilty, even if it wasn't your fault. It was the kind of calm that let you know you hurt him, just a bit.

"We met tonight," Kat spoke up, her voice softer than she had been with the boys. "I'll make it up to you," She said, smiling.

"You'll cook? Ahh, I knew I missed you for a reason," Bobby said smiling as she leaned down to kiss his cheek before running inside. "Get her bags. Second guest room," Bobby ordered. Dean grumbled under his breath before shouldering the duffels and bringing them to the room.

He dropped them unceremoniously on the bed, noting how the springs squeaked as the weight bounced around. Once it settled, he unzipped a duffel and began rifling through an assortment of jeans and shirts. He noted that a few were men's jeans, though what man would have a waist that small was beyond him. The shirts were mostly graphic-T's, decorated with funny phrases or Star Wars logos.

"Dean? What the hell are you doing?" Sam asked, coming to stand beside his brother.

"What? You don't want to know?" he asked sarcastically, before holding up a piece of cloth. "Dude. Girl boxers," he said with an impish grin.

Sam sighed at his brother's stupidity and picked up a CD holder.

"She's like the female version of you. Look at this, Metallica, ACDC, Rolling Stones," Sam listed. He stopped abruptly, coming to a blank disk. On it was a small note: video.

Dean shrugged after looking at it and Sam opened his laptop, before slipping it in and pressing play.

Instantly a boy of about eighteen appeared on the screen. He had black hair and brown eyes. He smiled at the screen. "Hey people of Earth! I'm Jamie and I don't know what my last name is." He paused for a moment, a frown working its way onto his lips. "Okay so this is my first video log, and I'm starting this so I don't go insane. I'm honestly just glad Kat let me buy this camera since we're pretty much broke. Anyway, we're on the road, not surprising, with John. I don't really know why he decided to let us join up after the past few years of Kat's begging, but he finally caved. He's lookin' for this big bad demon and said he'd help us find ours, but I don't like him very much. He likes Kat, though. He's a lot nicer to her than he is to other people. Still strict though. Like an army dad or something. But we had a father, once upon a time, and our family doesn't need to change any more." He trailed off, looking a little bitter. "Anyway, we're in a bar right now, tryin' to get some money while we wait for the new credit cards to come in. As you can guess, John's hustling pool and Kat's playing a group of college kids in poker. They have no idea what'll hit 'em. So I'm sitting here kinda useless, but I do have some research and stuff." The boy faded off and trained the handheld camera on a much younger Kat. Dean tried not to notice how tired and sad she looked. Like she'd been to hell and back. He knew that look. He did notice how her eyes lit up when Jamie walked over to her. She put on a smile and played along with his antics with the camera, making a sarcastic comment here and there in between dealing hands.

The scene cut away to the Roadhouse. Jamie was looking into the camera again, but now he looked tired. "We just finished a wendigo hunt…it was pretty rough, but we knocked it out. We're at the Roadhouse now, and John's talking to Ellen about old Yellow Eyes. Kat's sweet talking some other hunter who might know something about our demon. Don't tell her I said this, imaginary person who may or may not actually watch this, but I'm kinda scared for her. I haven't seen her really smile in years…of course part of that has a damn good reason, but I was hoping she'd be better by now. We've been out for years now and still nothing." He paused and Dean thought back to the earlier part of the video. If that wasn't a real smile, she was really good at faking. And her real one must take people's breath away, because the fake one certainly lit up the room. "I still don't like John, I mean, he's got his own kids…. and he never freakin' shuts up about them. I already know everything about them and I haven't even met them yet. Tell ya what though, that Sam kid is damn lucky his dad loves him so much. In this line of work…I know I would've thought it too dangerous for him to go to school. Way too dangerous." Dean looked at Sam pointedly as he looked at the floor. "And Dean…I wish John'd shut up about him for once. I don't care if he was an amazing son and brother, he doesn't have to freakin' rub it in my face. I know what I did. He doesn't have to remind me. I hope Dean and Kat never meet, 'cause she'll fall for him faster than you can say 'muscle car'. That's another thing…I. Don't. Care. About. The. Freaking. Car. I know he's freaked out because Dean has it, but seriously it's a chunk of metal. I know Kat would find it blasphemy and I've even caught her asking John if they could check on the two of them so she could at least see the car in person again. Who does that?" The CD ended and Dean changed it quickly.

"Just cause my car is amazing," he muttered under his breath. Sam sniggered.

"Okay, so now we're traveling with not just John, but the sweet talking hunter and his sister. Blake and Jenna. Kat and Blake are getting too close for comfort, but at least I have the assurance that they barely touch. The most they've done is hold hands and she can only manage that for a few minutes. He doesn't understand, but I do. Better than anyone. Part of me wants him to heal her; the other part knows he can't. She's been through too much for it to just disappear because some hot guy wants it to." Dean glanced curiously at Sam and he looked just as confused. The camera moved and walked into another room where a blonde guy and red-haired girl were sitting with John and Kat.

The scene changed again. "It's been almost three months and we've gotten almost nowhere with our demon. Azazel, yellow eyes, has at least been active. More psychics are showing up all over the world, but our guy's been silent. Like he's sleeping. I'm getting cabin fever here. John promised to help, but I think he's holding off because he knows that once this is over, Kat's going to leave. I know this is one of the only things pushing her. And it's doing it more than me. I don't know what to think anymore." Jamie hung his head.

Dean huffed and shook his head. He couldn't let his guard down because of someone who was obviously biased. He still didn't trust her completely. He changed the disk and waited.

"John's going to leave. We can all tell. His kids are in trouble and none of us blame him, but I can't help but feel a little betrayed. Sure I never liked the guy, but he's the closest thing we have to a dad, and I want to go with him. Blake and Kat have been going strong, and by that I mean she finally managed to kiss him. It lasted like a half second but he thinks it's progress. I think it's her feeling guilty and trying to throw him a bone, but I'm not going to crush the poor bastard. I know once John leaves, so will I. I can barely stand to look at Kat nowadays without breaking down. The end of all this shit'll go down eventually, and I don't- I can't be there to pick up the pieces. She won't be all better when it's over, and I can't stick around to watch her realize that.

"She's different. I know we're twins and we're even born conjoined" He held up his pinky which held a small scar in the shape of an asterisks. It reminded Dean of a star. "Forgot to mention it, we were born with our pinkies wrapped around each other. That's the only thing John found out about our pasts. Apparently, Kat came out first, but she wouldn't let go of me. When the doctor cut us loose, he sewed us up and that was that. No big deal. The doctor also said that our mother had held Kat and said that an Angel was watching over her. Hell if I know what that meant, but I do know that our dad loved me more. That's bad to say, but the only thing I remember from our childhood is dad telling our mom that I was his child, but Kat wasn't. I don't even know how that's possible. Whatever, I know at some point she'll find out. But she's not looking for answers anymore, I am. That's why I gotta leave I gotta know why we-"

"What the hell are you doing?" a voice asked from the doorway. Dean and Sam jumped up guiltily, snapping the laptop shut.

"Just-" Dean started.

"What is wrong with you people?" she asked, her voice soft and calm. Neither answered and her hand twitched dangerously towards the gun in her belt. "You couldn't just fucking ask me?" she asked, her voice rising. "How could you?" She jerked the computer away from Sam, taking out the disk and the others and stuffing them back in her duffel.

"We just-" Sam tried.

"Just thought you'd check up on me? Figure out who you're hunting with?" She asked sarcastically. "Well I hope you found what you were looking for," she said harshly, before turning and rushing downstairs.

"Damn it," Dean muttered.

"This is why we can never have friends," Sam said bitterly. Dean only grunted in response. "Are you happy now? Do you trust her?" he asked.

"She's on probation," Dean replied softly, still looking at the door with conflicted eyes. He couldn't just let her in, and it was screwing with his head. He wanted to apologize, but the hunter side of him said he had nothing to apologize for. She was still an enigma, and he wouldn't let her past his walls until he knew where she stood. Sam sighed heavily, knowing that was as good as he would get from his older brother any time soon.

At the sound of fluttering wings, the boys turned to see Castiel. His eyes were on the door, looking at it almost longingly, before looking at the Winchesters.

"Watch her," he said stiffly.

"For what?" Dean asked, looking intently for a reason to not trust her.

"Don't let her leave after the hunt," he said his eyes boring into theirs. "She could be important in the downfall of Lucifer," he said cryptically, and Dean knew there was more to the story. He sighed loudly, knowing it was useless to even try to get the angel to further explain.

"How so?" Sam asked curiously. Dean felt he should give his brother a pat on the back for being slightly suspicious. Maybe they wouldn't take the same roads this time.

"She is needed on our side. Befriend her. Win her trust. Do what you can to ensure her stay," he said. "And Dean, do not toy with her," he said forcefully.

And then he was gone.

"Wow. Who shoved a stick up his feather ass?" Dean asked, looking at the spot his friend had been a moment before.

"He just wants to make sure she won't go dark-side cause you screwed around with her head," Sam said dismissively. Dean grumbled something inaudible and followed Sam downstairs.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Mouth-watering smells wafted through the house and Dean suddenly looked much more trusting of Kat. His stomach momentarily overriding his brain, he waltzed into the kitchen, ignoring Kat's hunched form at the stove.

"Has it happened before?" Bobby was saying, wheeling himself closer to her.

"No. I-I don't think so," she said softly, her back still turned. She'd taken off the leather jacket and was left in a black T-shirt, leaving her arms bare. Dean was surprised to see the many thick scars across her pale skin—some thinner and random, others large and scrolling elegantly across the skin. He'd never seen scars like that. Done with such precision, as if an artist had painted them, to look exactly as they did. A shiver passed through him, as he wondered what _thing _would take such interest in the pattern of scars the woman before him wore.

"Well, what the hell was it?" Bobby demanded.

"I don't know! All I know is that it hurt and I didn't like it," she shouted furiously.

"Your spine was moving!" Bobby said, obviously thinking not liking it fell a little short.

"I am aware of that, surprisingly enough," She said sarcastically, turning to face him. She blinked, looking slightly embarrassed at having the two boys in the room, but covered it up quickly.

"What's going on?" Sam asked tentatively. "We do have a lot of expertise in this area."

"Nothing," Kat said with finality. "Bobby, you can look into it all you want. But I've got the biggest hunt of my life right in front of me and I'm not getting side-tracked."

That seemed to effectively end the conversation, but Dean couldn't help but think it'd happened at the same time that Cas had been upstairs with them. Absently, he wondered if that meant something.

"So…" Dean said, trying to alleviate the tension in the room. Kat paused from loading plates and sent him a glare.

"That doesn't make things any less awkward, Batman," she said coolly. He only shrugged, taking a seat at the table and watching Bobby roll himself up. He didn't exactly like the nickname, well, the fact that she was the one using it. He wasn't sure why he was putting up with it, but decided to ignore it.

"So, when are we going for it," Sam asked, referring to the hunt.

"Tomorrow afternoon. I need to do some research first and I haven't seen Bobby in a while," she said, shrugging.

"Research on what?" Sam asked.

"Patterns. This is the first time he's done it since the original kidnapping in '92. She paused, as if thinking over everything she was saying. "I'm just wondering…why now? You know?"

"Yeah, I got you, but trust me, the whole thing's legit," Dean said, jumping into the conversation. She nodded at him, and then went back to eating. He dug into his steak and potatoes and groaned in appreciation of the home-cooked meal.

"That means he likes it," Bobby said to Kat's raised eyebrow. She inclined her head toward him and went back to eating. "So, where've you been?"

"The Roadhouse for the past two months or so. I've been living with Ash and working cases," she said.

"Cases? You're still hunting?" He wondered.

"Yes. I know you didn't want me to. But I can't give it up. This is my life," She tried to explain.

"I know, I just thought that after Blake, you'd stop," Bobby said.

"I've lost people before," She said almost coldly.

"But-"

"I'm fine. When am I not?" She questioned. Bobby sighed and hung his head.

"I'm just worried about you."

Dean was silent, the tension in his shoulders visible. How could he not have known her, when she was so 'close' to _his_ family? Not when he wasn't sure about her. He'd yet to place her into any one specific category, friend or enemy.

"Do you even know who you're going after?" Bobby asked after a moment of silence. The mood in the room changed to business.

"He wouldn't let…them," she sent Bobby a warning look that he seemed to understand, "call him anything other than Master, but Jenna found out his name was Alistair," she said, pushing the food around her plate.

"That's impossible. We killed him last year," Sam said, looking up. A look of unadulterated shock and possibly dread flashed in her blue eyes. She looked lost and scared. And then it flickered and was gone and Dean couldn't be sure he'd seen it at all. But he was a hunter, so he wondered anyway. Did that mean she wanted to kill him herself? Wanted to be the one to take his life? Or was it something darker?

"What did you kill him with?" she asked, the mask back in place. She looked to be clinging to some type of hope, trying desperately to find something to hold onto.

Dean shook his head abruptly at Sam, who was about to answer.

"I just mean, if you did it with one of those special knives…you have to leave them in until that weird flickering light stops. Otherwise a bit might live on. A little piece is enough to bring it back," Kat said quickly, a fierce determination in her eyes.

"Well. We-I used um…" Sam trailed off.

Kat was quiet, waiting for him to continue. Bobby shifted uncomfortably and Dean just looked down blankly.

"Oh! Ash told me about the psychic kid stuff. Well, some of it. Was yours exorcising demons or something?" she asked, her head tilting and honest curiosity in her eyes. Dean could see how much softer she was with his brother.

"Yeah," Sam said quickly. Her eyes softened, as if she knew something he didn't, and she nodded. When her eyes glazed back over into the unfeeling pools she usually wore, Dean wondered if Sam had felt warmth beneath her gaze.

"I imagine it was a panicked situation?" she asked. Sam nodded glumly. "Well then, isn't it possible that it didn't finish? Or didn't work?" she asked logically.

Sam nodded reluctantly and Dean was staring blankly at the wall, images of what he'd done to the demon swirling behind his eyes. He didn't notice kind eyes turning to him, but jumped when her fingers brushed against his arm.

The feel of the skin was soft and cool, but he could feel calluses and worn places. His eyes shot to hers and he thought they showed understanding. But no one could understand what he had gone through. He was about to tell her that when she spoke.

"You…you don't have to do this if you don't want to," she said softly, and he couldn't help but notice the soft look in her face. Like years had been wiped away and she was just a young woman. He wondered how old she actually was.

When she was like this, her eyes seemed deeper, like layer over layer of blue. He'd always liked blue eyes. He held her gaze for a moment, his thoughts swirling in his head.

"If there's even a chance that sonofabitch is still alive…I gotta be there," he said in a low growl. A nod of something like understanding came from her and he brushed off her hand reluctantly. He'd liked the touch. It reminded him of how Cassie would draw her fingers up his arm while they laid in bed late at night and the lazy contentment and swelling of happiness that would fill him.

Xx

Dinner finished without incident, and it wasn't long before they found themselves in the living room. Kat gave a wistful smile around the cluttered room, eyeing stacks of books and dust that must've been inches thick. She collapsed in a separate chair, leaning forward on her knees, her eyes intent on Bobby.

"I'm gonna need the plans," she said. Bobby straightened the slightest bit and looked stern.

"D'you really think he'd be that predictable?" he asked, readjusting his trucker hat.

"I'm betting on it. See," she paused a moment, as if organizing her thoughts. "I don't think he knows that Jenna's dead," she again gave a warning look to Bobby. "I think he's trying to lure her out. Maybe…finish what he started?" she finished in a question, but it was clear she'd made up her mind. Dean was wary at the near excitement in her eyes. He hadn't seen a hunter so intent on the kill since himself, just after his father died.

"Alright, kid, whatever you say," Bobby said gruffly, rolling himself into the next room. While he was gone, Kat turned to Sam.

"You're gonna need your laptop and can you grab the journal at the top of my duffel?" she asked with a smirk at his guilty look. Sam left, leaving the two of them alone. Dean was watching her with predatory eyes and she returned it. "What?" she snapped.

"Nothin'," he replied with a smirk. She gave something like a growl in the back of her throat. "Y'know, this demon's a pretty big deal. I don't know if it's your kinda gig," he said as casually as he could.

"No shit he's a big deal," she muttered, her eyes flickering for a moment. "I'm going," she said strongly. "This is my hunt. It's always been mine."

"Were you really that close to this Jenna chick?" he asked suspiciously. She didn't seem the type to be 'close' to anyone. Bobby and Ash seemed like Grade A exceptions.

"I don't see how that's any of _your _business, Batman," she said hotly. Before Dean could retort, Bobby was back in the room, holding blueprints and building designs. Kat took them quickly and was rifling through them with ease. She absentmindedly passed Dean a few to look over while Sam reappeared and tossed her the journal she had asked for. She thanked him quickly and undid the latch, exposing yellowed paper to open air.

"Odds are he'll take them to some sort of warehouse. Best case is with a basement," she said, feigning casual. Sam nodded and began searching, his eyes roaming easily over the screen.

"Warehouses have basements?" Dean asked, looking up from the extensive floor plans he'd been given.

"They were usually built over sites that ran alcohol during the Prohibition. It was easier to not bother filling them in," Sam read aloud from an article online while Kat nodded.

Dean nodded, curiosity sated for the moment, and went back to looking over the plans. It was silent for a moment until Kat's groan of frustration.

"This doesn't make any sense! Why now?" she said angrily, her head hanging slightly.

"Maybe he's just now strong enough?" Bobby suggested.

"Then why would he have waited six years beforehand?" she asked desperately. "Blake said he'd been in Hell for most of them, but he got let out to play sometime last year," she said, her eyes flitting over the plans and the journal. She'd opened it to the middle, bypassing a thick section of entries.

"That was for a job. I doubt Lucifer was down with freelancing," Dean said logically. She flinched from the last words, her eyes filling with anger.

"These are children," she snapped. "Not a side project."

Dean nodded his understanding, but couldn't help but wonder why there was such an attachment. All hunters learned to distance themselves. It was the only way they could function, when the thought of the victim was in the back of their minds. But this seemed as personal for her as Yellow Eyes had been for himself and his family.

The itch was back, tempting his fingers to claw at the back of his head for an answer. He was sure he could find it eventually.

When their beers had run out and their brains felt as if they would shut down, they moved to get ready for bed, battle plans still running through their minds.

"I'll take the couch," Kat said, not moving from her spot in the armchair. Sam looked about to protest out of politeness, but she shook her head. "I don't sleep much anyway," she said lightly. Dean grunted, as if to say 'no take backs' and mounted the stairs. Bobby yawned loudly and began wheeling himself to his room.

"Don't stay up forever," he reminded, like a dad might remind their daughter, and rolled into his bedroom.

Kat nodded noncommittally and flipped the page of her journal. When she could no longer hold her eyes open, she dragged herself to the couch and wrapped herself in a cheap blanket. She curled in on herself and let her eyes slide closed. Her eyes slid closed and she hoped she could get some real rest tonight.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Nimble fingers gripped a frayed blanket, and small mumbles could be heard from the form beneath it. Black hair splayed out on a tattered pillow and a pale face was contorted in pain. Dusky lips parted in a silent moan of agony and the body writhed.

Kat awoke sharply, a scream stuck in her throat and her hands shaking. She released the blanket and slumped back into the sheets. She prayed absently for the blue-eyed man to reappear. He had only visited her nightmares once, and then it hadn't been a nightmare. It was the only time she'd slept through the night.

With her eyes still closed against the shadows of the room, her hand searched blindly for her sketchbook. She groaned softly when she realized it was upstairs. Hauling herself from the couch, and cringing as the springs protested, she stood in the dark room. The night was black and her paranoid mind rushed around her, finding demons in the walls and terrors in the shadows.

She shook her head violently, needing the thick paper and pencil to rid herself of the images. A hand ran through her hair, a nervous habit, as her mind struggled to banish the faces. Susie's. Andrea's.

Her body shook violently as she opened her bright eyes and rushed towards the steps. She moved slowly enough to avoid the spots that creaked and fast enough so that the memories wouldn't catch her. She swore to herself when she realized that one of the boys would have taken her room.

She wondered how they would greet a late night intruder.

Probably with a gun to the face. She paused at the top of the stairs, wondering if it was worth it. And then flashes of the nightmare flew before her eyes and she moved on to 'her' room. She was consoled by the knowledge that if Bobby heard her, he wouldn't be surprised. Her night terrors had always induced late night searches for her sketchbook, so she could draw away the fear.

She skipped over a floorboard she knew to be loud, and opened the door slowly. The moonlit room revealed a snoring form on the bed, and her sketchbook on the floor beside him. She bit her lip and moved as soundlessly as she could into the room. Kat crouched near the bed, trying to keep her breathing soft and silent, and her hand reached for the book.

She had to swallow the scream threatening to break free from her throat as her arm was encased by a warm hand. Her eyes flickered upwards and she realized that the body above her had stopped snoring.

Her breathing stopped for a moment, her eyes wide and fearful. She was more terrified than she was when she first woke up, and she thought that was saying something. She looked down at the callused hand gripping her wrist and followed it up the muscled arm, eventually finding the man.

Two bright green eyes stared back at her, hazy with lack of sleep. And her breathing started up again, harsh and fast, as if she'd been running.

"What are you doing?" Dean demanded in a harsh whisper. She blinked rapidly and told herself to say something.

"S-Sketchbook," she stuttered out, hating herself for tripping over her words. She pointed with her free hand at the book, which lay at the top of her duffel. Sam must've left it open when he was looking for her journal.

"At three in the morning?" he demanded sarcastically. She flinched away from him, and nearly whimpered when the hand on her wrist tightened a fraction.

"I h-had a n-nightmare. It h-helps me relax," she said, her body shaking slightly. She was feeling stupider by the second, berating herself for being so weak. She was supposed to be fooling him into thinking of her as indestructible. That was how she kept herself safe. But now he'd seen past the armor.

The hand around her wrist relaxed a bit and his eyes softened slightly. She didn't relax. The contact with his skin was only putting her further on edge, and her breathing was shallow and weak sounding. She felt just like the sixteen year-old girl Bobby saved all those years ago. Dean finally seemed to sense that his touch scared her further, and released her.

A sigh of relief broke from her lips and she was surprised to feel the smallest bit of loss at his warm and rough skin. Dean nodded at the book, with a sloppy half-smile and she brightened.

She scooped it up and clutched it to her chest. She stood quickly and nearly sprinted from the room, pausing at the door just a moment.

"Thank you," she said softly over her shoulder, before racing back down the stairs. She turned on the lamp beside her bed and grabbed the pencil she'd tucked into the book and opened to a fresh page.

Her body relaxed from its tightly wound position as her hand flew across the page. When she felt sane enough to just lie back and think, she did so. The blanket pulled again to her chest, her eyes on the ceiling.

Xx

Dean struggled to find sleep after that. It seemed to viciously elude him and he felt as if it were slipping through his fingers. His green eyes roamed the ceiling as he thought of her.

He'd never seen another hunter so fragile, so breakable. He thought she looked much younger than she had when he met her. It brought out the brightness in her blue eyes and the dusky color of her lips.

Her skin had looked so alabaster and he wondered what it felt like. How it would feel to run his fingers over it. He wondered what her dark hair would feel like, pulled between his long fingers.

He berated himself silently, scrunching his eyes shut. He'd thought he'd shut down that side of himself the moment he saw her. He thought he'd locked it away to never be seen again.

He couldn't afford to see her as anything more than another hunter. It didn't matter if the leather jacket had hung perfectly from her slim shoulders or if her eyes were bewitching and sweet. It didn't matter if her body made lusty images spring to his mind or that the softness of her voice made shivers roll down his spine.

All that mattered was that the world was ending and he didn't know if he could trust her.

But the way she'd gripped the sketchbook and the way her breathing had slowed when he released her made him think dangerous thoughts. He tried to shove the images from his mind and sighed deeply.

Xx

Much later, when Kat's mind was dancing between sleep and awake, she heard voices downstairs. She berated herself for not hearing them come downstairs in the first place and listened as Dean continued saying something to Sam.

"I mean, man…it wasn't _normal_. I don't think I've ever seen another hunter that freaked out. Seriously, somethin' really screwed her up," Dean said softly, so as not to wake her.

"What was she doing in your room anyway?" Sam asked curiously.

"Said that her sketchbook helped her calm down after a bad dream."

"Do you believe her?"

"Yes," Dean answered immediately, not hint of doubt in his voice. "You should've seen how relieved she was just to have it in her hand. And the look on her face when I let go of her…" he trailed off, as his voice became almost sad.

"What do you think she was dreaming about?" Sam asked quietly, a careful curiosity in her voice.

It was quiet a long moment and Kat imagined Dean with a pensive look on his face. "I don't know. But when I…when I'm like that…it's because I'm thinking of Hell. Makes you wonder…what kind of hell she sees," he said quietly. Kat sucked in a breath, her eyes wide. She had forgotten for a moment that he had died once. Ash had told her in passing once, after she'd gotten back from a hunt and he'd received word that Dean had bit the big one for his baby brother.

Kat would never admit it to anyone, but that was the moment she realized how far you should go for family. Now she wondered why she'd never had that selfless love demonstrated to her from her own brother.

"Should we mention it?" Sam asked softly, his voice sounding unsure.

"No," Bobby's gruff voice broke in, as he wheeled himself into the room. Kat sunk lower into the couch, her eyes shut as evenly as possible as he passed. "She has night terrors," he said as he arrived in the kitchen. "Just be glad she's learned to control the screams," he said sadly.

"Screams?" Sam asked. Kat bit her lip in shame. She'd thought she'd convinced him that she was okay.

"Every night for four years. She's only learned to control the screams in the last two with that book of hers. It used to be every time she even rested her eyes…now the nightmares are down to one a night," he told them softly. "She hates being so weak, but after one of them…she can't control the fear. Even I can't touch her after one."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, sounding concerned.

"She hates to be touched. Usually can't stand to even shake hands with a stranger. She's okay with me…and used to be with John. But after one of those…I'm surprised she let your hand stay there that long, Dean," he said matter of factly.

Kat decided it was time to assert her presence, and stretched out cat-like and shuffled beneath her blanket. Talking died down instantly as she stumbled theatrically into the kitchen, earning a chuckle from Bobby. She smiled a good morning to him and passed the other two men without as much as a glance. She cracked her neck absently as she approached the coffee maker, her mind screaming to be properly awake.

She'd long since trained her body to run on less than five hours of sleep, but it required large amounts of coffee. She poured it in a mug and drank it straight. She ignored Sam's look of disgust and smirked at Dean's nod of approval.

She sighed in delight as the caffeine rushed through her system and leaned against the counter.

"You know, you can tell a lot about a person by how they drink their coffee," Dean said amiably, obviously making the effort to be friendly to her.

"Really? What's that?" she asked with honest curiosity.

"Well, just look at Sammy's. All milk and sugar. Obviously, he is a pansy," he said solemnly, his head nodding seriously.

"And if it's black?" she asked, her head tilting slightly as her pale fingers gripped the mug.

"That person is clearly badass," he said with a smirk, raising his own mug in a mock toast. She chuckled to herself and returned it, before realizing that her lips had curved up into a small half-smile. She corrected it quickly, trying not to notice the almost triumphant look on Dean's face.

"Better than a pansy, I'd say," she said, once her mask was back in place. She stretched and gave Bobby a small nod. "I'm gonna shower and then we can go over plans," she said, already walking out of the kitchen.

"I want you training today," Bobby called after her. She paused at the doorframe, her body straight. "You can't afford anything but the best," he reminded.

"Fine," she sighed heavily. "But I can't for long. These kids don't have forever," she whispered. She left the room, her head shaking, trying to clear her thoughts. As she stood under the pounding water, she sighed, feeling the beat of the droplets against her scarred skin.

Her mind flashed with images, suffocating her along with the humid air around her. She gasped slightly, her head hanging and wet hair falling around her face. Blindly, her hand groped for the dial. Once she found it, she turned it to freezing, and a sigh of relief broke from her. All at once her mind was clear and her body relaxed under the cold water.

She stepped out and avoided looking at the mirror as she wrapped a towel around her body and opened the door.


	7. Chapter 7

She collided with a warm, firm body, and instinctively gripped the towel tighter. Her eyes flew wide as her nose brushed against his chest, her heartbeat thrashing in her ears. She scrunched her eyes shut from embarrassment and tilted her head up slightly, cracking an eye open.

Her cheeks burned and she could feel her blood pumping through her body as she locked eyes with a startled and equally embarrassed Sam. She was frozen in place for a moment, only able to stutter mindlessly.

"S-s-sorry," she whispered, stepping back finally, the towel clutched tightly in her hand.

"N-no problem. My fault," he said quickly, scooting around her and dashing down the stairs before she could say anything else. She shook her head slightly and looked up and down the hall for more attractive men she would want to embarrass herself in front of.

After dressing in skinny jeans, a Star Wars shirt, and combat boots, she threw her hair into a sloppy pony tail and rushed down the stairs. The back lot of the Salvage Yard was always her favorite place. It was barren, empty of any house near by or even within hearing range. The perfect training ground for the hunters, though Bobby didn't appreciate using the salvaged cars as targets. Outside she was surprised to see all the boys in the field, guns in hand, shooting at cans.

She smiled softly at the determined look in Bobby's eyes as he gripped the gun from his wheelchair. She chuckled to herself as she imagined the hassle the others must've gone through to get him out here. She resisted the urge to clap as they all hit the bulls-eye.

Bobby, seeming to realize she had been there, turned slightly in his chair to grin cheekily at her.

"Very nice, old man. Didn't know you had it in you," she said jokingly, her face as serious as she could make it with the smirk threatening to break through.

"Shut your trap, missy," he warned, waving his gun menacingly. She looked around the field for a moment and realized that he'd set it up, or rather had the other two do it for him, just the way she liked it.

Without even bothering to acknowledge Dean or Sam, she walked past them and picked up her favored training weapon, a Beretta 92, cocking it swiftly. Bobby watched her take position, while the boys looked around for her target.

Finding none they resolved to simply watch as she lined up the shot and fired. A small, satisfied grin spread across her lips as they heard a raspy car alarm go off in the distance. She smiled to Bobby, and it reminded Dean of a young child who knew she did something right and was expecting praise.

"What d'ya hit?" Bobby asked, wincing as the fading car alarm filled the lot.

"The rear view of an old Honda," she said with a grin. He nodded to himself with a sigh at another window he would eventually be compelled to replace and motioned Sam over. Confused, the young hunter followed the wordless orders and set up a sniper rifle on the trunk of a car.

"Sammy's the best sniper I know," Bobby said proudly. Kat nodded, interested and leaned forward to pick a target.

"Hit…hit that street lamp bulb," she pointed to the light on the other side of the piles of stacked cars, still within Bobby's property. Sammy rolled his eyes, seeming to take the challenge easily and positioned himself.

"Maybe you'll need him," Bobby said. "You were never much of a sniper."

"I can't stay focused long enough to line up the shot," Kat said with a shrug. "You know how John always was; no need for wasting time just-"

"Point, shoot, and God help you, don't miss," Dean finished with a satisfied sort of smile on his face. Kat tried not to notice how endearing it was, like a little boy's.

"Rule number-" she tried again.

"Forty-seven," Sam said from his position as he pulled the trigger. Kat listened intently, and heard the distinct and traveling sound of breaking glass.

"Nice," she complimented smoothly. "What do you say we up the game a bit?" she asked with a coy smile.

Xx

She started breathing faster, her chest rising and falling quickly. Her eyes were wide and frenzied as they took in her predicament. Her arms struggled to find purchase, but the green-eyed hunter above her only smirked.

Kat writhed beneath the cage of his hard body, pushing down the rising blush crawling to her cheeks. She could hear Bobby's groan as he began to grudgingly hand over twenty bucks. She went limp a moment, waiting for Dean to lighten his hold slightly.

She had been surprised by not only his strength, but his agility. He was just as quick and nimble as she was and combined with his strength, she'd been pinned in only moments.

She was even more surprised by the gentle, soothing warmth that came from his skin. Normally she found warmth anything but soothing, but for some reason he was different. Before she could wonder why she was okay with being underneath him, she took the opportune moment of distraction.

Her hips bucked violently into his and she used the leverage to hook her leg into the crook of the back of his knees. She followed the momentum of her movements and flipped them over, until she was straddling his slim waist. Her legs forced his down on both sides and her arms caged him inward. Her upper body pressed tightly against his to restrict movement and her breathing slowed as she briefly listened to his heartbeats.

She thought she heard them speed up as her body tightened against his, anticipating resistance. He bucked up twice, but she'd wound herself around him too tightly. He sighed in defeat and she slid into a sloppy sarcastic smile.

"I win," she proclaimed, hopping off of him as Bobby held out his hand to a defeated looking Sam. Bobby turned awkwardly in his chair to high five her and she mock-bowed, looking pleased with herself. It was more of a challenge than she ever would admit, and she knew she only beat him because he'd thought he'd won.

She didn't hear him come up behind her, but she stiffened when she felt his fingers trail through her dark hair. Her eyes closed as her mind warred, to decide if she should be afraid or not. A slight tug had her further on edge, her eyes shut tightly and her breathing slow and careful.

"You had grass in your hair," he said softly, showing her the stray blades he'd held in his long hand. She nodded dumbly and scooted further away from him, until she'd almost hit Bobby's chair.

"Th-thanks," she said softly. She moved around Bobby easily and looked down at him with pleading eyes. "Can we please stop now? We need to be leaving soon anyways," she said quietly. Her eyes darkened at just the thought and she looked far away from Bobby and even Dean as he stood next to her.

"Yeah, you'll wanna go pack up," Bobby said sadly. She nodded and Sam and she walked ahead while Dean awkwardly pushed Bobby through gravel and high grass.

"So, what do you think you'll do after this?" Sam asked, trying to strike up a conversation.

"Try and figure out my last name. Find my parents' graves, and see if I have any other family. Look for Jamie," she said with a shrug.

"You don't know your own last name?" Sam asked in disbelief.

"My parents…died when I was very little. Jamie and I were put into an orphanage and for some reason or another, our last names weren't given," she said slowly.

"Oh, um, I'm sorry to hear that," he said with a truly empathetic look that made Kat smile sadly. "How did they die?" She paused a moment, thinking. She used to say in a house fire. It was vague and easy to accept. But ever since Ash had informed her of the psychic children, she'd changed it. No need to further antagonize the patrons.

"Car crash," she said quietly. Sam exhaled and nodded as they reached the porch. He opened the door into the kitchen and she wondered if he was relieved or disappointed.

"I wouldn't…I wouldn't worry about that stuff," she said, looking up at him. "There are other people like you, I'm sure, but you don't need them to convince yourself that you're a good person. You kind of find that out on your own," she said truthfully. He gave a tired, sad sort of nod, but she thought she saw his eyes brighten a bit as he left the room to pack.


	8. Chapter 8

Kat wandered across the kitchen, waving to Bobby as he rolled in, and grabbed herself a beer from the fridge.

"That was nice, what you did for him," Dean said, almost reluctantly. She sent him a slight nod and began to almost unconsciously pull out more pots and pans than Dean knew Bobby owned. "Do you need any help?" he asked carefully.

She paused, seeming surprised by the question and turned to him with wide eyes. She nodded almost hesitantly, her ponytail bobbing behind her. "But I've had enough chick-flick moments to last me a life time, so I'm going to drink and cook. If you don't like it…well, it's not my problem," she said clearly.

He grinned in appreciation and approached the clean countertop. His eyes roamed the multiple ingredients before him warily. "What do you need me to do?" he asked as amiably as he could. "And what is this for?"

"Can you boil water?" she asked almost sarcastically. "It's for Bobby. I hate the idea of him sitting in the dark with a beer and a TV dinner," she said softly.

Dean looked up at her sharply and looked about to say something, something about family and the way he was raised. But he only smirked and looked back over the food. "Are you kidding? I'm a cooking genius!"

"C'mere," she waved him closer and pointed out a cutting board to him and a wrapped pack of chicken. She cut it open deftly, washing it quickly and putting it back on the clean cutting board. "Cut this chicken into strips," she said softly, her body warming pleasantly with his proximity. She pushed down a blush and scooted away from him, casting a teasing, "Try not to hurt yourself," over her shoulder.

Dean wondered how she did it all; she had her journal in one hand and some sort of food in another, making fast and simple dishes that he'd never even thought to make. The whole time he sawed at his raw chicken with annoyance written on his face.

"Of course I can do it…just a chicken…show her," he grumbled under his breath and even he had to wonder if he was teasing. Kat was sending him amused glances and flipping battle plans in her book with leisure. It was silent for a moment, Dean's rant seeming to die out, then, "Uhh…Kat?"

She turned to see him holding up his thumb to show a thin slice along it. His eyes were cast down, almost in embarrassment as her eyes went from his face to the knife to the cut and back again.

Then, as if something broke in the room, she was laughing. Uncontrollable giggles filled the room as her body bent in half with her arms wrapped around herself, her face turning red and her body shaking. And Dean was just as far gone, and she realized that she couldn't see him past the tears in her eyes and it was hard to find room to breathe. When Dean slid down the counter and onto the floor, Kat wasn't surprised when she followed, still laughing as if both of them were unstoppable. Laughing as if they were two drowning people who had found their life raft and were clinging to it. Laughing like they had not in years, too long to count and too tiring to ponder over.

Dean's beer pooled around him and Kat's was tipped over on the counter. Her hair was falling in her eyes and Dean's chest was rising and falling with difficulty. When they finally stopped, it was more from a need to breathe than anything else, and they simply sat there on the kitchen floor, savoring the feelings of lightness that neither of them thought they'd ever really feel again.

"I can't ever remember laughing that hard," Kat said softly, her eyes still sparkling.

"Me neither," Dean said with a grin that seemed to be a gateway. They weren't there yet, probably wouldn't be for a while, but he liked her okay. Kat was surprised to find herself thankful. Usually she didn't care what people thought of her, but the kindness in his green eyes made her want to be there for him.

She stood up carefully, trying not to slip on spilt beer. She grabbed a rag and began mopping it up, occasionally swatting the hair out of her eyes. When she stood up straight again, Dean was still there, now leaning against the counter with a serene expression on his face.

"Do you want help?" he asked, looking back to the few half-cooked meals she hadn't finished.

"Maybe you should stay over there," she said teasingly. He held up his hands in mock surrender and backed off.

"When are we headin' out?" he asked curiously.

It was quiet a moment and Dean almost regretted asking as he watched her face fall back into hard lines and business. "Maybe an hour," she said softly. "It's about a day's drive from here."

"And when we get there?" he asked, watching her sprinkle something in a pot with salt and flick the rest over her left shoulder. "And what was that?"

"It depends when we get there. We can't afford to go in there half-cocked," she said seriously. "And it's just something my mom used to do. You know, to ward off bad luck?"

"You believe in that shit?" he asked, downing the remainder of his beer.

"My mom did. I don't remember a lot about her, but I do remember her getting mad at me once, because I was playing with a black kitten. And how much she hated for us to walk under ladders," she said with a smile.

"I lost my mom too," Dean said quietly. Kat gave him an empathetic look, one that seemed to pierce his heart and see straight to his soul. "So do you follow all of the superstitions?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

"Most of them. I don't walk under ladders, I side-step black cats, I carry a pentagram and an herb bag in my duffels," she listed.

"The pentagram I get," Dean said with a smile.

"I got the tattoo a few years back, when the demon population exploded," she said in agreement.

"I've had one for a while," he said, pulling down the collar of his shirt to show his tattoo. Her eyes lingered on the exposed skin of his tan chest while she nodded absently. "Please tell me yours is a tramp stamp," Dean all but pleaded.

She rolled up her sleeve, showing the pentagram on her bicep. "I have others," she said with a smirk.

"Where?" His response was immediate and signature of the male species.

"Curious, are we?" she asked teasingly.

"Sorry, what of?" he corrected himself.

"Wings on my back." That lie flowed easily, and she was grateful he didn't notice. "Two names on my ankles, and Castiel on my hip."

"What was that last one?" Dean asked in disbelief.

"Castiel. I was born on a Thursday, and my mom told me when I was little that he would always protect me. I don't know what I think of it, but she died believing it, so I got the tattoo so I wouldn't forget."

"How old were you?" he asked quietly.

"Five," she said tersely.

"I was about four when my mom died," he said grudgingly, as if he felt obligated to tell her now that she had told him.

"Is that why John became a hunter?" she asked softly, her eyes creased with worry.

"You didn't know?" he asked in surprise.

"I never asked," she said. "I don't like making people think about something they would rather forget."

"Well, he was obsessed. Always pushing us to know everything about the supernatural, for me to watch over Sammy, for us to get the bad guy," Dean said sourly.

"And Sam?" she asked carefully.

"Never got on with him. Sam could never understand how much killing that bastard meant to Dad, or how dangerous it was for him to be on his own. They always fought, right up to the last time they saw each other."

"Sounds like John," she said quietly. "He never got on with Jamie. Mostly because of…" she trailed off, her eyes growing darker.

"Because of what?" Dean asked slowly.

Before she had to answer, Sam walked in the room, looking completely oblivious to the seriousness of the conversation around him. Kat boxed the last of the food and slipped it into the fridge. Before Dean could say anything else, she had slipped out of the kitchen and went off to find Bobby.

"Did I interrupt something?" Sam asked.

"I don't know, man. I just don't know," Dean said softly, his eyes on the kitchen entryway, as if expecting her to walk back through it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Hey! Here's another chapter! I would really appreciate some reviews, to know if this is what you guys were looking for, and a huge thank you to those who have. I love you!**

**-Han**

"Hey, man," Sam said quietly, looking at the counter. "She left her journal." He pointed to the leather-bound diary, a conflicted look on his face.

"No," Dean said quickly, stopping the line of thinking before it could erupt and take over his younger brother's brain. "We're not goin' down that road," he said stiffly.

"Why not? We already watched the video," Sam said, looking intently at it. Dean looked down, something close to shame on his face at the reminder. "Look man, I like her too, but we can't risk going on the road with someone we barely know," he said logically. He didn't want to fall into that trap again. Look where Ruby got him.

"Maybe you don't, but I do," Bobby spoke from the doorframe, his hands stilled on his wheels.

"Can we trust her?" Dean asked softly, something in him praying the answer would be yes and nothing else. No hang ups. No fine print.

"With your lives. With your souls. It doesn't matter, she'll have your backs," he said with a sort of fatherly pride that Dean didn't think he'd ever heard before.

"How can we know?" Sam asked desperately, the pain in his eyes so palpable that Dean wished he could help him.

Bobby was quiet for a long moment, his eyes growing far away and sad. "The day she got out of the hospital, after John and I saved her," he said quietly, not really acknowledging how much he was telling them. "She looked up at me and I swear it looked like she was hit by a truck. In an old dress of my wife's, and covered in gauze. She looked up at me and said 'I don't want another person to ever have to feel like this. You have to help me help them. Help me be like you,'" he said quietly, his body seeming to sag in his chair as he said it.

The room was quiet as he let the words sink in, never breaking eye contact with the boys. Dean was trying to decipher his own feelings, wondering why it hurt too much to think about her like that.

He left without another word, his wheels making a hollow sound that Dean thought was reflected in the last glimpse he had of the man's eyes, and nothing Dean could have said would have summed up how he felt. He felt his head pounding with just the idea of her, wounded and broken and scared. It just didn't feel right.

"Is that good enough for you?" Dean asked softly, his head lowered. Sam was quiet for a long moment, one so long Dean would have thought he'd simply left the room.

"Yeah, I guess," he muttered. Doubt still lingered in both of their minds, they wouldn't be hunters if it didn't, but neither could deny that she checked out. Dean would be lying, now, if he said that he didn't want her to.

Xx

Kat was out on the porch, looking blankly over the fields of broken cars. Broken dreams, means to an end, crushed and forgotten. She was leaning against the banister, hands spread carefully to avoid splinters.

"Heard you laughing," Bobby said quietly from behind her. She watched him awkwardly roll himself onto the porch with her and smiled softly, something rare and beautiful to the older man.

"I don't know what happened," she said quietly. "It just sort of, took over. I didn't know it felt that good. Do normal people feel like that all the time?" Her voice was soft and quiet and Bobby could barely hear her.

"I don't know," he answered honestly, looking back at her levelly. "But I am proud of you for given' them boys a chance," he told her, smiling one of his rare smiles.

"I don't know how it'll work out," she said quietly, "But I think I like them."

"More than you can say for half the people you meet," Bobby snorted. The laughter died on his lips and he looked to Kat in that fatherly way that made you think of home and love and gruffness all at once. "You're given' them just a bit of hope, somethin' they need," he said softly.

"I don't think they're used to it," she replied just as softly, her eyes still trained on broken cars. "It's not like I do much anyway."

"You're sayin' what they need to hear and you're doin' it without dippin' it in sugar," Bobby said flatly, recalling the soft words she'd spoken to Sam in his kitchen.

"I'm not some kind of hero, Bobby," she said firmly. "I'm just telling them the truth."

"But you _are _one," Bobby whispered, looking up at her from his chair, but she felt as if he were looking down at her with pride in his eyes. She shook her head slowly, black hair swishing around her face and her eyes smiling at him while her lips remained leveled into a smirk.

"Only to you," she said softly.

"You should probably get moving," Bobby said after a long moment, one Kat wished she could extend. It was unlike her to want to hold still in a moment like this, but the air around them was so calm and peaceful and she'd let her façade of a warrior drop for just a moment. A child emerged from the depths of her mind, sharing a moment with a father she wanted to make proud.

She sighed, something resigned and heavy, and her back straightened once again. "Yeah, we should," she agreed, moving back inside after another lingering look over the lot. Bobby thought she looked to be made of stone. The man sighed, slowly picking himself up in his chair to stand straighter, and look like it wasn't hurting him to see her go.


	10. Chapter 10

She ghosted back into the kitchen, deftly grabbing her journal with a suspicious look at the two men leaning against the counter as far away from it as possible. Dean locked eyes with her and slowly shook his head, his body language telling her clearly that he hadn't touched it. Neither of them had.

She sent a quick nod to him, something she hoped showed appreciation, and rushed up the stairs to grab her duffels. On the way back down, she lingered over the steps, her eyes memorizing the house. A soft sigh resigned her to move again, taking slow steps towards the fight she'd been waiting for.

In the kitchen, the boys were ready to go, but she was hovering in the entryway. "Am I leaving my bike?" she asked softly, looking at Dean.

The man paused, his head tilting to the side and nodding slowly. "It would be easiest."

She nodded, as if she'd known the answer and dropped her bags, walking past them to the door. "I'll just, take care something," she said softly, moving outside and kneeling down by her bike.

Dean watched her run a gentle hand along her bike and saw her lips move and somehow knew she was saying goodbye. Knew she was promising it she would come back. A small grin came to his face as he watched her, and he thought he saw Sam smile from the corner of his eye.

Kat leaned down, brushed a hand along slick leather and fine stitching, her eyes roaming over carefully crafted metal and black tires. Her eyes shut and a slow sigh escaped her lips. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been without her bike. She couldn't remember the last time she hadn't relied on it, used it to escape the world. Her getaway vehicle, her way out, her wings. With it she could fly on asphalt faster than anyone else, she could feel the wind in her hair or see the world from behind a tinted helmet.

She always thought she would face the end on her. It was something of a personal fantasy, one she could replay when things got too dark to see through. She would imagine riding away, blood on her jeans and lightness in her heart.

"Baby girl…I'll be back. But I'm finally going to get this guy. Maybe I'll be able to sleep easier. Maybe I'll be able to touch people without being afraid. I don't want to be afraid, baby girl, not anymore. I want to be normal. Just normal," She whispered to the bike, her eyes cast down.

It wasn't about the apple pie life. It wasn't about the two-point-five kids or the perfect job or the perfect house or the perfect guy. Normal would still be the bike beneath her and a hunt ready, but with the added benefit of sleep and touch.

She'd always imagined that her bike would take her to the end, but maybe John's car was close enough. She stood easily, one last slow look lingering over her bike, and walked around to the Impala. The sun glinted off the black paint and she remembered the first time she ever saw it.

Maybe it would be close enough.

Dean walked out of the house first, both of her duffels scrunched together in one hand, his back straight. She raised an eyebrow, watching the way he carried her bags with care, as if afraid to break something inside of them. They were placed in the trunk and he walked back around to the driver's side, watching Kat as if waiting for her to make the first move.

Sam walked out a moment later, his strong shoulders firm. He reminded her of a warrior. Bobby rolled himself out last, his eyes sad, but resigned. Kat walked back to the trunk, unzipping a duffel bag and snatching out her iPod and a sketchbook. Her eyes stayed on the ground as she walked back around and put them on the seat in the back.

She felt the boys watch her as she lifted her blue eyes to Bobby, who still sat calmly on the porch. She swallowed, resigning herself to goodbye, and approached him.

Dean always thought it was something strong to see a family say goodbye. He'd be dammed if that wasn't what it looked like when Kat crumpled against Bobby's chair and struggled to find a way to hold on best. Her face was turned away from him but he could tell her mask was down. The façade of a hunter would be gone and it would be like any daughter saying goodbye to a father, maybe for the last time. Every breath she took seemed labored in his eyes and he felt like he understood her a little better for it all.

"You take care of her," she commanded, breathing in the musky scent of old books and motor oil. Bobby chuckled, nodding his head as one of his arms wrapped around her back.

"Promise. You don't be a stranger this time round," he said firmly, refusing to let a tremble creep into his voice.

"I swear," she said softly. "Every chance I get and all the ones in-between."

"That's my girl," he said affectionately. He leaned back, letting his arms drop from her as she stood back up. "Now get your ass in that car and kick this demon into the next century," he said with laughter in his eyes.

She half-smiled, nodding understandingly and turning back to the car. She sighed, her chest heaving out her fear, and walked toward the boys.

Sam and Dean were watching her closely as she slipped into the back and looked at them expectantly. Dean chuckled to himself, opening his door and sliding behind the wheel, his hands resting firmly at ten and two. His green eyes sparkled in the rearview as Kat flipped distractedly through her sketchbook, finding a new page. Sam followed him in quickly and Dean peeled out of the lot, watching as Kat looked up for a last lingering glance over the fields of cars and the dilapidated house.

The car rounded the corner and it was lost from her sight, and Dean thought he could see traces of sadness in her eyes, but as she turned back to face the road before them, all he saw was cold determination.


	11. Chapter 11

The machine raced down the highway, asphalt blurring beneath the tires and AC/DC pumping through the speakers. Dean was banging his head to the beat and singing along with no shame while his brother rolled his eyes and looked longingly at the iPod still resting in the back seat. Kat was tapping a charcoal pencil on her pad, singing along quietly while looking for something to draw.

Her eyes met the rearview mirror and her head tilted in concentration. She could see Dean staring out the window, his eyes a mixture of intensity and music, the sparkling green drawing her deeper. His lips were drawn into a firm line, now that the song had changed, and the Cupid's bow curl to them seemed more inviting to her than lips should be. His hands gripped the wheel firmly, the whites of his knuckles standing out against the worn black leather.

Perfect.

She tilted her body to see better, and began to draw, her pencil running smooth lines on the paper. Her body seemed to relax as her hand moved across the pad, focusing on the curve of his lips and the creases in his army-green mechanics shirt. She colored it sparingly, using shades of grey and peach until she reached his eyes. She rifled through her pencils and found the brightest green she could and set to work. She was sure she used at least four different shades of green to get them just right, and even then she thought they lacked something.

Staring into the rearview with shrewd eyes, she nodded to herself and picked up a gold, flecking it through the green until she could sit back and be happy with it.

When Dean pulled into a rest stop, she'd taken to flicking her eyes between the picture in her hand and the one driving. It had taken her an hour to complete, and she judged her work carefully as she studied her subject.

The car rolled to a stop, and Sam snuggled slightly deeper into his seat, obviously asleep. Kat looked around herself, preparing for a trip inside.

"Are you finished, finally?" Dean asked, pulling her from her thoughts with a sarcastic grin. "I thought you'd never be done."

"Don't be pissy," she muttered, mostly to herself as she finished scrutinizing her work.

"What could you have possibly drawn that took so long?" he asked as he shut off the car. She chewed her lip distractedly, deciding whether or not to show him, and finally deciding that it couldn't hurt.

She flipped the pad over and let Dean take it in, his eyes growing wide, then narrowing, then dissolving into a mixture of apprehension and appreciation. Kat would never tell a living soul that she was nervous, but she fingered the seat with one hand and refused to meet his eyes while he scanned her drawing.

At some point Sam realized the car was no longer in motion and jerked upright, turning in his seat to see what Dean was staring at so raptly. His head tilted to the side as he blearily inspected the drawing.

"When d'you get a picture of Dean," he said tiredly, a yawn escaping his lips. Kat blinked, wondering if she should take that as a compliment.

"I drew it," she said calmly, still looking at the seat. She looked up finally, her eyes catching Dean's.

"I've never…I haven't," he trailed off, seeming unable to find the right words. "It's great, really," he said finally, his eyes kinder than she thought she'd ever seen. She had to push down a blush.

Sam smiled at her and nodded his agreement, before muttering something about a candy bar and getting out, leaving her and Dean alone.

"Do I really look that…that…?" Again he seemed unable to finish.

"Broken?" she asked, looking at him softly. He seemed to flinch from the word, but nodded just the same. "No," she said quietly, her eyes never wavering from his. "I just know what it is to hide it."

"So you don't think Sam...?" he asked, looking back the way Sam had gone and wondered if Sam could see through the cracks in his armor.

"I'm sure he does," Kat said softly, as if she regretted it. "You should see the way you are around each other."

"Like what?"

"You orient yourselves around the other; you don't do anything without this odd sort of unspoken communication between the two of you. If he knows you half as well as I think he does, then he has a good idea of how you feel," she said slowly.

Dean gave a sort of sheepish smile and prepared himself to go in. He sighed deeply, his mind lingering over her words, but in the end shoving them aside. If you didn't think about it, it wasn't there.

"Get me some gummy bears while you're in there," Kat called after him, making herself comfortable in the seat. Her body itched to be behind the wheel, but she restrained herself, knowing Dean was not John, and that he might kill her if she tried.

When Sam came back, his arms laden with all the junk food one man could eat, they sat in a slightly awkward silence until he decided it ought to be broken.

"So," he said quietly, trailing off and looking lost.

"Yes, I'll draw you next," Kat said without looking up from her pad. Her eyes flicked up as he blushed and nodded jerkily, as she tried to get the angle of his nose right.

"Stop blushing, it messes with your coloring," she said lightly, as if teasing. Sam wondered if that was her version of affection.

His cheeks reddened further at her comment and he squirmed in his seat. He cringed in embarrassment when Dean opened the door and slid into the seat with a Coke and two packs of peanut M&M's. Kat looked up, her mouth open to demand her gummy bears when Dean threw them back at her. She caught them deftly, offering a small, contented smile in thanks.

She tried to ignore the way Dean continued to look at her, as if seeing her for the first time. Or the way Sam's eyebrows shot up. Bobby must have told them about the rarely used muscles around her mouth. He must have told them about how little they were pulled into a smile.

She sighed, wondering what made them so different, where she didn't mind it. She wondered what made them special enough to make her smile. She shook her head slowly, flicking her wrist out to relieve the tension as she continued to draw Sam. She thought Dean was driving more carefully, for the sake of her drawing.

"Dude, why are you blushing?" Dean asked his still red brother.


	12. Chapter 12

Late at night Dean was beginning to tire. It was clear from the line of his body, and Sam was already dead to the world. Kat sighed. Having already offered to drive four or five times and receiving a stern 'no' each time, she knew that Dean would either drive until he died or they would have to pull over.

Every nerve in her body begged her to keep going. Every minute spent moving forward was a minute more those kids would survive. When the car started to pull to the side, moving towards an exit, her head hit her hands. At this rate, it would be another day, and she wasn't even close to tired.

Her head rose and she scanned to surrounding area carefully, trying to discern where they were. They passed the yellow lights of a bar and she leaned forward, trying to read the name in the gloom.

"Batman?" she asked softly, her eyes never leaving the walls of the dilapidated tavern. "Since you won't let me drive…"

"No," he said shortly.

"I just want to go to that bar," she said softly, pointing at it through the window.

"Let me get the room first," he said tiredly. She had to resist the urge to do a fist bump in victory. She needed something to do. It wasn't like she slept much and they weren't going to move any further tonight, but she still felt so alive.

Sam woke up when they pulled into the motel, and Kat hopped out quickly, paying for an adjoining room and ignoring the lingering look from the sleazy man behind the window. Dean wasn't sure he'd seen her move that fast, as she practically ran to her room and to the shower.

He thought she had cabin fever from the car, and he couldn't blame her. He'd seen the bike she usually rode, and the very idea of all that power would make anyone go into withdrawal. She still wasn't going to drive his car.

She took forever in the bathroom. Dean thought the water went off fast enough but, how long did it take her to get dressed? He didn't think he would ever understand women.

He lounged on his bed, closest to the door as usual and idly flipped through his father's journal while he waited. He was just about to scream frustration when she stepped out of her adjoining room. Sam and Dean looked up as one and Dean thought an angel was standing there, and he didn't mean Cas.

The woman standing before him had on white skinny jeans, with black leather boots over the top of them that stopped at her knees. The shoes added another four inches to her five-foot height and emphasized her perfect legs. She had on a black corset like top that laced in the front, a little red bow sitting just at her cleavage. The top was the perfect cut and left just the right amount to the imagination. She topped it with a leather jacket covered in zippers that had just enough worn edges for you to see she wore it a lot. Her midnight black hair was curled beautifully around her shoulders, ending in the middle of her back. Her bright blue eyes were ringed with black eyeliner and a smoky shadow. And her lips…god, those lips. The perfect red and shape and god…those lips.

"K-Kat?" Sam asked softly, as if he was staring into the sun. Dean blinked, trying to decide if he was right. He wasn't sure how long it took him, but he found if you turned your head to the right and squinted, you could see the tough hunter beneath.

"Where the hell do you think you're goin' dressed like that?" Dean asked before he could stop himself. He winced when he heard how fatherly that sounded.

"Jack's Bar," Kat said calmly, walking through to their room while fiddling with the gun behind her jacket.

"Why?" Dean asked slowly, as if it was very important he learned all he could.

"It's how I make money," she said, shrugging lightly.

Sam and Dean turned as one, blocking the door and staring at her harshly. She shook her head suddenly, her face twisted in disgust.

"I sing in bars! I come through so often I make deals with bars. I sing a set and get paid," she said quickly, appalled at the very thought of selling her body. "I like honest work here and there."

As if a weight was lifted, the boys backed down slightly. "We're going with," they said together, as if it were obvious. Kat flicked her eyes between them, trying to decide how serious they were, before finally shrugging lightly and walking out the door.

Dean drove, because it was the way Dean did things, even if his eyes were still on the border of drooping shut. Sam was finally something like awake, but Kat knew it was for the set, and then both would sleep. That was fine by her, she thought distractedly, fiddling with the edges of her jacket. As long as she got an outlet of some kind.

Walking into the bar was something Dean hadn't expected. There was a predatory look in Kat's eyes as she scanned the establishment, clearly looking for someone.

"Kat!" a heavy, booming shout cut across his thoughts and he instinctively brought his hand to his waistband. Sam had to nudge him harshly in the ribs before he moved his hand away.

He watched Kat approach a heavyset man with thick salt and pepper-hair and a moustache.

"Jack," she said in greeting, cutting her eyes around the bar again. Jack extended his hand and let her take it, shaking it heartily before backing off slightly.

"You here to play a set for these fine people?" Jack asked, looking around the crowd of young to middle-aged men with a grin. She nodded, chewing on her red bottom lip.

"What do you want?" she asked beginning to move towards a makeshift stage and waving at the house band.

"Hit me with something soft," Jack said with a smile, offering his hand to help her climb up. "In the mood for some Mac."

"You got it," she said with a nod, finding herself a stool and plopping down with an acoustic from a line of guitars behind her.

Dean looked around again and moved with Sam to sit at the bar. He ordered a shot and prepared himself for something, he didn't know what, but he was sure it was something. It only took a moment for Sam to decide he wanted to be closer and Dean was alone as Jack grabbed the mike and spoke into it.

"Well, folks, got a real treat for you all here. This is Kat, she plays the house when she travels up this way, so please give her a nice welcome," he said with a grin. He passed her the mike, which she placed back in the holder, adjusting it to her height. She balanced the guitar on her knee and looked up slightly.

The bar held itself in silence, as her fingers started to move, working the guitar into a kind of soulful rhythm. He didn't think it was normal for the instrument to sound like it was singing, but it did.

_"I took my love and I took it down,_

_ I climbed a mountain and I turned around,"_ She sang softly, her voice weaving through a quiet crowd. Dean had never heard something like that, something that sounded like a mixture of air and your soul. Like something he thought angels were supposed to sound like, instead of the ear-splitting tones he knew. This was something different and pure in a way he didn't know of.

_ "And I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills, _

_ 'Till the landslide brought me down."_

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Castiel's gruff voice pulled him from a moment he would never admit he was in. Dean shifted, taking in the angel beside him, watching Kat with a certain kind of reverence he didn't understand.

"Have you heard it before," he asked, unwilling to call anything beautiful.

"Yes," he answered softly. "I don't know how many angels have, but I know of a few who stop and listen when she sings," he said. "There is something about her voice that reminds us of purity."

"I can see that," Dean said quietly, fingering his glass. "You plan on meeting her any time soon?"

"In due time," Castiel said gruffly, looking up at her as she closed her eyes and swayed slightly. Dean looked up and wasn't surprised to see Sam waving his open cell phone back and forth, like he was at a Skynyrd concert.

"Are you worried about making a good impression?" he teased as he watched her reach a chorus. Castiel remained silent and his eyebrows rose. "Are you really? I seem to recall you not giving a flying fuck what I thought of you, mister 'I brought you out I can throw you back in'."

"That was different, you were being insolent and I was still on heaven's orders," he said shortly. Dean rolled his eyes, kicking back another shot and watching her finish the song.

_"And if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills,_

_ Well maybe the landslide bring you down_

_Well, oh, the landslide will bring you down." _Her voice drifted off into a current of applause that Dean would not admit he participated in. She allowed herself a small, honest-to-God smile, and readied herself for the next song.

Dean wasn't sure how long she played for, but by the time the set was over, Castiel had disappeared, the sound of wings lost among another round of applause. She stepped gracefully from the stage and walked straight to Jack, her hand held out and a soft look on her face. Jack smiled, saying something about her headin' up this way more often and gave her the money in an envelope.

Sam walked out first, the line of his shoulders speaking of exhaustion, the smile on his face speaking of a good time had. Kat counted her money deftly, a smiled in her eyes.

Dean followed her into the night, shooing her off his baby when she tried to sit on the hood while she counted. She looked up and waved the cash happily.

"Next motel's on me," she said as she climbed into the back.

"How much?" Dean asked as he put the car in gear, casting his eyes over to see that Sam was already almost asleep.

"Enough for the next week or so," she said with a shrug. Dean wondered if that meant she would stay with them past this hunt.

When they pulled back into the motel, she gave them both a soft goodnight and went into her room, closing the door behind her quietly. Dean collapsed on his bed, tucking his gun beneath his pillow and rolling to face the door, just in case. His salt lines were already in place, the devils trap on the door. He somehow knew that she had taken the same precautions.

The darkness pulled in around him and he wondered how much sleep the world would afford him tonight. Considering the way things had been going, he was sure it wouldn't be much. Preparing for another sleepless night, he let his eyes slide closed and hoped he could get 'Landslide' out of his head enough to relax.


	13. Chapter 13

Dean didn't wake again until three and his first thought was that children get older. He cursed 'Landslide' and rolled over lazily, glaring at the cheap clock by his bed, and wondered why the hell light was seeping under the door connecting to Kat's room. He cringed at the sound of automated gunfire on low volume as it wafted through the quiet air. At least she was trying to be quiet.

He stood, his back cracking in places he wasn't sure it could crack, and half-stumbled towards the door. He opened it, not caring about his lack of shirt or the bed head he must have been sporting.

He blinked, and briefly wondered if he was still asleep. Maybe he was dreaming.

Kat stood in the center of the room, bed pushed to the side and empty beer bottles on the floor. He wondered were she got them. She was wearing sweatpants and a baggy shirt that exposed the edges of her pale shoulders. Her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail and her eyes were trained on the old television screen in front of her.

Plastic gun in hand, she shot terrorists on Wii in perfect position, her blue eyes flitting across the screen and arms twitching to reline a target. Her trigger finger squeezed, timed with the yelp of the man on screen. Next target.

He coughed softly, and she turned immediately, gun held up as if it were a real weapon, her eyes wide and hyper-aware. He held up his hands in mock-surrender.

"Hey, don't shoot," he said with a grin. She looked him over slowly, her arms lowering, a blotchy blush on her cheeks.

"Why are you up?" she asked softly, her eyes flickering back to the room behind them. Both waited until they could hear a snore before talking again.

"Might have been the light or the noises," Dean said sarcastically, looking over the screen again. She flinched slightly, her eyes growing far away for a moment.

"Sorry about that, sketchbook wasn't enough tonight," she said softly. She looked up at him, her eyes narrowed in concentration. As if it was taking her a lot to stay in her own reality. "Needed to shoot something."

"That why you brought it?" he asked, indicating her gaming system. She nodded deftly.

"Never know when you'll need to have an outlet," she said, her body turning again to face the screen. "Wanna play?" As she asked she changed the game to two player. Dean recognized names on the list as her brother's, and the two they had traveled with. He was surprised to see his father's name on the list, as well as Bobby's. She cast a glance at him a shrugged. "I annoy everyone enough to wake up at some point."

"And what? Shanghai them into playing?" Dean asked, coming to stand beside her and take a controller from her offered hand. The plastic gun fit only slightly uncomfortably in his hand as he adjusted to its light weight.

"Why not?" she asked lightly, in way that sounded natural. "I think it's a slice of normal they can relate to," she said softly. Dean wondered how much she knew about normal, as he caught the sight of worn, heavy calluses on her trigger finger and on the palm of her hand.

"Rules?" he asked, changing to subject back to the game.

"Point. Shoot. Don't hit the civilians," she said simply. "The bad guys have guns and they can use them, so try not to die," she added.

"I'll try," he said with mock sincerity. She shrugged and hit play, immediately shooting within the right side of the screen. Dean took out a crazy one with a chain saw, and wondered if this is really what terrorists were like. He lost track of how well she was doing, too absorbed in the quick easy headshots, his score mounting. His no-miss streak was perfect, his vision beginning to slip in and out of view as they advanced stages. His arms felt heavy and his brain fuzzy and he knew he was bordering on sleep.

They were running out of levels and Dean wanted to know what the time was, but was too consumed to shift his eyes further than the screen. Neither of them had spoken, shooting in a total, but somehow companionable, silence.

Kat swallowed, her eyes flickering for a moment to the near-dead hunter next to her. He was tired, and she knew it. And she could tell from the set of his eyes and the strength of his stance that he would keep playing until he won. Concern filled her eyes and she thought about him driving this tired tomorrow.

She turned back to the game, lined up her shot, and flicked her wrist at the last moment, ruining her perfect streak. The game ended, scores up.

Dean fist bumped the quiet air in victory as his score came a point above hers. He turned to her, triumph on his lips and unnatural joy in his chest at the simplicity and the fun.

"Oh yeah!" he said, louder than he should have. He quieted down. "You owe me now," he said with a boyish grin. She nodded, a smile threatening to break around the edges of her mouth.

"I'll buy you some Jack sometime," she said with a shrug. "Now go to sleep, Batman. You're dead on your feet," she said in a way he thought his mother might have, when he was older.

The grin slipped from his face and he nodded numbly, passing her the controller and navigating through empty beer cans he still didn't know the origin of, and stumbled back into his room.

"Goodnight, Batman," she said softly, closing the door to her room behind him. He stood in the darkness for a moment, staring at the door with a blank look, seeming unsure what emotion to choose.

"Goodnight," he whispered, before collapsing in his bed and rolling over into unconsciousness.

Xx

Dean smiled at her like he knew something no one else did. She only raised an eyebrow and continued about her business, packing her bags and trashing the beer cans. He approached her comfortably, as if he'd known her much longer than he had.

"Did you ever get to sleep?" he asked, running a hand through his short, newly washed hair.

She shrugged. "I'm used to only a few hours a night," she admitted carefully, as if it meant a lot to say it.

"Do you ever sleep the whole night through?" Dean asked, leaning against the threshold and crossing his arms.

"Once," she said softly, her face scrunched childishly in concentration. He didn't think she noticed. "About a year ago. It was a weird dream," she admitted.

"What about?"

"Some guy with these…familiar eyes…and a trench coat. It was a nice trench coat," she said with a hint of a smile. Dean wondered if he would ever see her grin, a real smile that stretched her entire face and lit up the room the way he imagined it might.

Her words set into his brain and something clicked and something else went on autopilot and he heard himself ask her something like, "Did you get his name?"

He heard her answer no, and felt himself nodding as she explained that he didn't talk much. He took this as confirmation and decided to have a word with their resident nerd angel the next time he decided to grace them with his presence.

Theories rushed through his mind, but he didn't have time to go through any of them. Instead he picked up one of her duffels for her and led the way to the car, where Sam was leaning against the passenger's side. He gave Dean a look at the duffel in his hand, but Dean ignored it, setting it in the trunk, over his toy box, and letting her add the other. He stepped back, watching the gentle way she lowered her bag into it, as if afraid to harm it. Her eyes ghosted over the car, taking in the smallest details and settling on the driver's side.

Dean titled his head slightly, trying to decipher the woman before him. He'd never met someone, a woman no less, who loved his baby as much as he did. He knew his reasons for loving it, his entire childhood was wrapped within that car. But her? What ties did she have with it? He didn't know, or understand, but he knew he wouldn't let her drive it.

"Can I drive?" she asked, and he thought he might laugh out of just the coincidence. He was about to open his mouth and give her a resounding 'no', when she continued to speak. "I didn't spend a lot of time with John," she said suddenly. "But I remember he took a day, just one day, when I had been trained a bit by Bobby, and I knew more than I did when they found me, and brought me out to this old dirt road. He got me in the driver's seat and I remember he told me if I crashed, he'd kill me." She paused a moment, staring at the wheel. "He wouldn't have had to try all that hard at that point."

Sam had taken to just watching her, as if expecting to get the whole story. As if he expected her to fly, or something similar. He seemed to be taking in everything, the way her hair was out and blew in the sun and it looked so black it was almost blue in some places.

Dean was noticing how her lips moved when she spoke, and the way the early morning light made her eyes look more blue than he'd ever seen.

The sigh that came from him was something like defeat, as he tossed the keys to her, letting her catch them deftly. "Fine," he grumbled. He wasn't sure why he said it, but he thought it might have been the way she admitted she was weak, at one point. It might have been that she knew his father, or maybe it was just because she asked, and some part of him wanted her to get something she wanted.

She turned to him, with the first smile she'd given in so long she didn't remember. She walked around to the driver's seat, her body sliding easily into the seat and her hands gripping those worn patches he held so often. Sam had moved in a stunned silence to the back seat, sliding in and crumpling his legs into the smaller space.

Dean sat beside her, watching every breath she took and every careful movement with a critical eye. "It looks weird from this angle," he said to Sam, taking everything in from this vantage point. Kat chuckled lowly to herself, gingerly taking the key and placing it in the ignition.

Her muscles looked wired and her eyes were bright and alive and Dean thought the image suited her in some odd way.

She looked out the dash, her eyes fixed on the road ahead, a kind of fierce light in her eyes that made her look like a warrior. Her mind flitted to the kids they were on their way to save, the ones Alistair held and was probably torturing. Her wrist turned, the engine grumbling to life in the motel parking lot, and she pulled out of the lot and into the morning.


	14. Chapter 14

"Don't hurt my baby," Dean grumbled, as she pulled onto the back road Sam had planned out the day before and seemed to relax in the seat. She reached in her pocket, bringing out an old pair of cheap looking sunglasses, probably from Walmart, and slipped them over her eyes.

Dean watched her reach for the radio, turning it up loudly as 'Wayward Son' flowed through the speakers and she sang along. At some point, she'd turned down her window, letting the wind whip her hair and she never took her eyes from the dash.

Dean felt like he was intruding on a private moment, as the car accelerated to 75 and her fingers tapped the wheel in beat with the song. He thought she was reliving a part of her life he had no place in. He was the outsider in his own car, his own home.

He thought, if he could see her eyes, he might see a window into the girl Bobby had described, vulnerable and broken.

"Maybe ease up on the gas a bit," he said nervously as she hit 80.

"Calm down, John!" she said teasingly, something like a smile on her lips before it froze and melted away within the second and Dean thought it was like watching seasons on fast forward. "Sorry," she whispered, her face blank once again, even from behind sunglasses. She slowed to a comfortable 60 and stayed focused on the road ahead of her.

"You were close to him, weren't you?" Sam asked from the back, still trying to find a comfortable way to fold his legs.

She nodded deftly. "I hadn't gotten to spend a lot of time with him when I first got out of the hospital, since he was always hunting. Said I wasn't ready to hunt with him. But…one day he showed up at the Lot, and brought me out to this back road," she said, her voice soft and far away. "Let me drive the baby, knew how much I loved it," she said with a breathy laugh. "Said he wanted me to be a teenager, if only for a day."

"Why were you in the hospital?" Dean asked before he could stop himself. He couldn't help but want to know, and it seemed she was in a sharing mood. She swallowed, her knuckles whitening on the wheel.

"John and Bobby found me and my brother, saved us. Jamie was okay, but I…I wasn't," her voice broke slightly. She coughed, shaking her head slightly and falling back into stone, and Dean wondered if her skin would feel like marble. "I was in for about a month, learning everything. Got out, and Bobby offered to take us in, train us if we wanted to. Jamie didn't want to, but I said yes," she said in a blank voice, devoid of inflection.

"What were you learning?" Sam asked, able to pick up on anything to do with education, Dean thought with a wry grin to himself.

"Everything I could," she said calmly. "I didn't know anything, I had the skills of a fourth grader at best," she paused, laughing to herself as if it were hilarious. "I jammed about seven years of education into about three months."

"How does that happen?" Dean asked, careful and regretfully, as if his voice would make her spell of truth crumble and they would be back to knowing nothing about her.

"When you lived like I did," she paused again, her eyes misting over behind the lenses. "Well, it was lucky I could read." Her lips were still set in a firm line, but her cheeks were a blotchy red. Dean would never admit it was cute.

Her embarrassment seemed to end the conversation, and she drove on, no longer singing to whatever song came after that. She just stared at the road ahead and hoped they didn't think any less of her for being so weak, for being stupid.

Xx

Dean let her drive for hours, hours longer than he was comfortable with and his fingers were tapping at his thighs with nothing to do. She hadn't spoken again, and Sam had fallen asleep long ago, his long legs bent to fit on the seat.

Dean watched her the whole time, his eyes unwavering from her form. He flinched every time she changed gears, though she had done nothing wrong. The radio had been turned down to a pleasant hum of music in the background and her fingers occasionally tapped a beat to a familiar song.

When she pulled into a gas station, and got out of the car, Dean exhaled and wondered if things would go back to normal now. Him behind the wheel and his brother beside him. She walked into the small store, paying for gas and food casually, walking back and waiting by the pump as the numbers rose and seconds ticked away.

They were just inside Maine, then, and she seemed to be on edge. She moved to the passenger's side, allowing Dean to take back his place. Allowing Dean something he needed. She opened the back door, taking out a candy bar from what she had bought in the store and leaned down towards Sam's unconscious body. Dean thought he had moved past simply sleeping, he thought the term was 'passed-the-fuck-out'.

"Prettyboy," she said softly, her hand reaching out as if to shake his shoulder and stopping, her fingers hesitating above the fabric of his shirt. "Wake up." Sam grumbled something unintelligible, his legs pulling even closer to his body. She sighed. "I bought you a candy bar," she said in an almost sing-song voice, and he cracked open an eye. "Come on up to the front seat, I know your legs must hurt by now."

Dean thought she sounded like a mother, and again wondered how old she was. His shoulders rolled as Sam groaned, stretching every muscle painfully and rising from his seat. He took the offered candy bar with a soft smile and passed her to slip into his seat. A sigh of relief broke from both brothers as they returned to normal. Kat cast a look over both of them, feeling like an outsider as she slipped into the back and passed Dean two packs of peanut M&M's.

She fished in the plastic bag again until a contented look came to her face and she pulled out a bag of gummie bears. Dean thought those might be her weakness. He pulled out of the station, Sam already falling asleep, unopened candy bar forgotten in his lap. His eyes flicked back to the rearview as he watched her eat each color methodically, saving red for last. Her nimble fingers raising each to her lips, biting the heads off, then eating the rest. She never once wavered from this pattern.

"Why do you eat them like that?" Dean asked, unable to control his curiosity. She looked up, as if realizing he was there, and shrugged.

"I save the best flavor for last," she said as if it were obvious. "And I bite the heads off because I don't want them to suffer," she said seriously, meeting his eyes in the rearview.

"You…you know they can't feel, right?" he asked, as her face remained stoic.

"Yes," she said, seeming offended that she would doubt her sanity that much. "But when I was little, I could never be sure," she said with a teasing glint in her eyes. Dean smiled, leaning back in his seat and wondering what her teen years were like, since she never mentioned them.

"You're a weird one," he said, flicking his eyes back to her, as if that was the only definition she would ever need. Kat: the weird one.

She only shrugged, taking it more as a compliment than anything else, and turned to look out the window. Without looking up at him or changing her expression, she handed him a red gummie bear. He took it hesitantly, bringing it his mouth and pausing, his eyes flicking back to be sure she wasn't watching. He bit the head off, then swallowed the rest, the whole time his eyes on her. He'd be damned if she saw him do it.


	15. Chapter 15

Kat stared out the window, aimlessly following the line of blurring trees until they were just a mesh of multicolored greens. She wished she could be behind the wheel again, but knew Dean needed it, needed the assurance and the consistency of his home and his father. Something she could never be a part of. She could sit in the seat, but it would always be made for a Winchester.

And Dean clearly needed the bond; she thought he might live on it. Family was something both brothers seemed to survive on, something she'd only ever thought about in the past. Now there wasn't enough left of a family for her to call it one. But she still thought about a little girl, now and then, one who called her Kat because she couldn't say Kathy.

She sighed, her eyes slipping closed for just a moment, long enough for her to see the face behind her lids and for her to blink open again. And the white lines on the side of the road were constant enough to forget the past for a moment and focus on the now.

And now there was something wrong with her, but she couldn't place it. But syllables and sentences were pouring from her mouth and she never meant to tell them anything. Her fingers traced patterns on her worn jeans and she told herself it wasn't all that bad. She hadn't crossed that invisible line on the inside of her soul, the one that broke down walls. She hadn't let them in too far.

At some point she realized that she'd been singing to Metallica along with Dean and it was too comfortable for her to be comfortable with it, but she kept going. It was like they'd known each other longer than three days. A laugh came to her lips because she thought it felt like they'd known each other for a few weeks, at least.

The smile froze on her face before Dean could spot it in the rear view and she eradicated it because it made her uncomfortable to have anything to smile for. She didn't deserve to be happy. Dean cranked up the music until 'Enter Sandman' was the only reality she knew and she thought it was because he'd caught that look in her eyes.

She thought that was something different about him. He understood. Hell did that to you, bending your soul until the horrors of the world were as easy to swallow as air. Even if her Hell hadn't been literal, she could still understand the hollow edge to Dean's eyes when he thought no one was looking.

That kind of thinking made it easier for her to spill her past and lay it out for the Winchesters to assess and believe or step on. And she was afraid that one day one of them would buy her coffee and she would explain exactly why her bloodstream was wired to take the maximum amount and exactly why she didn't like to be asleep. She was afraid that one day Dean would see the tattoos on her ankle and she would tell him exactly who Susie and Andrea were and why they meant something and why a little girl haunted her thoughts. Why the name Kathy made her want to choke on air.

It was Dean she was most afraid of, because those ever-reaching green pools had seen what she had and were windows to the marred soul she had learned to identify as her own. And she thought Dean felt the same when he told her about his father.

"We'll be there by nightfall," Dean said softly, pulling her from musings and settling her back into the backseat of the Impala. Sam didn't stir in the seat next to him and she realized that was why he'd said it softly.

She ran a hand through her hair and swore to herself. "There's no way we can go in there half-cocked," she muttered. "We're gonna have to wait another night."

"If I know anything about that prick," Dean said slowly, "he'll keep them alive."

"I know," she said seriously. "That's why I'm worried."

"We'll get 'em out," Dean assured, his eyes flicking to the mirror for a moment.

She was quiet for a minute and Dean thought the conversation was over and he could go back to singing along to whatever tape he had in at the moment. "I just don't want to see them hurt any more than they already are," she whispered.

"We can't risk going in there unprepared, we have a better chance of getting them killed, then," Dean said calmly, as if he wasn't fighting his own battles. She swiped a hand through her hair and he thought it was a nervous habit.

"I know," she said with a sigh and fell silent for a moment. "I just want this to be over, so badly." Silence consumed them again until Sam snored in the front seat and Dean gave a strangled sort of chuckle that made Kat think he had been thinking deeply about something. "We'll go over the game plan again when Sammy's awake," she said quietly.

"He doesn't like to be called that," Dean said matter-of-factly, casting a look at his brother and letting his voice drop and sound almost sad. "Barely lets me call him that."

She chose to ignore the vulnerability, pushing on until they were both just hunters again. "It can't be helped. I like nicknames," she replied with a shrug of her shoulders.

"Is Kat one?" he asked, either only pretending to look interested or wanting to dig deeper into who she was.

She nodded, almost to herself. "Yeah," she coughed lightly. "My name's Katherine, but no one's ever called me that. It used to be Kathy, Kitty to some. And Kat-" she cut herself off and made herself continue at Dean's confused stare. "It just kind of…came to be, I guess."

"Last name?" he asked, as if quizzing her.

"Not as far as I know," she admitted, that line growing ever thinner until she knew she could just step over it if she wanted to.

"Will I ever figure you out?" Dean asked, and she noticed how he didn't say 'we'.

"Probably not," she said with a small smirk. "But who knows, maybe all it takes is two Kansas boys in a nice car to get me talking." The truth behind her words made her want to hide away.

Dean laughed to himself, looking back at her. "And what would you be like, without the mystery?" he asked.

"Ah, the million dollar question," she said, looking back out the window as they lapsed into comfortable silence. When Sam awoke it was with uncertainty, because this was one of the longest times his brother had been voluntarily quiet. That was, without his brow being furrowed and his lips set and anger or hurt emanating from his form, but it wasn't like that. It was smooth lines and even breaths and a slow easy drum of his fingers on the wheel to the beat.

An hour and a half later and it was nearing eight at night and the town was twenty minutes away and a motel was there and Dean pulled in. Sam was the first out of the car, casting odd looks back at the other two as they got out slowly and leaned against the doors for a moment. When Sam came back it was with a sheepish look on his face.

"There was only one room," he said holding up a key. Kat sighed, shrugging and shouldering her duffel as Dean passed it to her.

"I call the floor," she said as if it were a prize. Dean looked at her levelly.

"You could take a bed," he said slowly, as if the words tasted wrong in his mouth but he felt he had to spit them out anyway. Sam's sharp look made him wish he hadn't even offered.

"I don't sleep much anyway," she said, hiding any traces of gratitude before they could spill over and make her do something stupid. "You need your rest, Batman."

He tried not to look guilty as he nodded and left to ask the front desk for extra pillows and blankets while she went in the room with Sam and set up her laptop at the plastic table. She was surprised this one had all four legs. When Dean walked back in he dumped what would be her bed onto his and sat down heavily next to the pile, leaning on it slightly as Kat launched into attack plans they'd already gone over twenty times.

Both listened like the warriors they were and put in what they needed to when they felt they should. She let them speak and spoke herself until her throat felt dry and every exit strategy had been exploited to their abilities. It was Dean who finally stood up and stretched, effectively ending the session with crack of his neck.

She tried to protest, but he cut her off. "You said yourself we have to be perfect tomorrow," he reminded and she could see the beginnings of circles beneath his eyes and picked up her blankets from his bed and set up her own on the floor. She tucked weapons into the folds and crawled beneath her covers while Dean did the same and Sam rolled his eyes.

Her head hit the pillow and she let darkness over take her and spit her out again four hours later when his many faces brought her to the brink of insanity and she saw fires and felt heat. And the form underneath could always make her shudder, and the masses of red flesh and horns and teeth and black eyes… and nothing she ever did let her build up a resistance to it.

As her chest rose and fell in time to her chaotic thoughts she knew that it wouldn't matter if her demon was dead. There would always be another and another and she would die doing this, but that was okay.

She was sweating and breathing heavily and her hands were shaking, and she wondered how she kept in the screams. She hadn't had one this bad in years, but maybe it was because she was near the end. Dean's form shifted and her eyes flicked to his as they opened and streetlamps and moonlight made his eyes a brighter green. He watched her for a moment, before squirming to the edge of the bed closest to the door, and flipping the blankets off the opposite end. The intent was clear; she was being allowed in, with the space she needed. Before she could analyze anything, she was crawling towards that empty side on limbs that could barely support her.

"Promise not to hurt me?" she whispered in the dark and hated herself for feeling so lost and scared.

"I promise," he replied with such sincerity that she slipped in beside him, careful still, not to touch. Her heart refused to slow and her back was too stiff to be resting and nothing she tried would turn off that fear impulse.

Then Dean did something stupid. He shifted beneath the sheets and brought his long fingers up to trail along her spine. She knew he could feel the uneven canvas of her skin, but he didn't say anything. She felt her body changing and wondered if she had been barren to touch for that long. It felt like it had in Bobby's kitchen, almost, except now her soul hurt too. She breathed in and out and in and out until any traces of pain were buried beneath her skin and she could deal with it a little easier.

Somewhere in between his fingers had traced patterns from her shoulders to lower back and her heartbeat and her breathing had slowed down. She could feel sleep on the edges of her mind. With her last coherent and daring thought, she shifted back, into him. His palm flattened out against her back and they both sighed. She let sleep take her again, into arms she had never thought of as comforting.

And she didn't dream.


	16. Chapter 16

She woke, her eyes blinking open to early morning sun and fully rested for the first time in years. She snuck out of bed, Dean's hand dropping from her skin and resting open on the sheets. She showered quickly, changing into jeans that offered maximum movement and combat boots she knew could break a nose if she aimed the kick right. She finished it with a 'Go Army' shirt she loved for the color and the feel. Even with multiple bloodstains, it still worked for her. She walked out of the bathroom and Dean smiled and said good morning, but nothing else as he brushed by her to the shower. She was grateful he didn't bring up anything from the previous night. She was already ashamed enough by her own weakness. She had never needed anyone before, and now? Now she reveled in the comfort of touch and it felt wrong to think like that. Wrong to feel a touch was right.

"Sleep okay on the floor?" Sam asked, and for a moment she thought he was digging at her slyly for being pathetic enough to have shared a bed with Dean. She looked up slowly, her face blank until she realized his eyes were genuine and he hadn't even noticed she'd moved.

"As well as ever," she said lightly, thinking it was true. The second half of the night had been one of the best she'd ever had. She could barely remember the last time she had found the possibility of sleep to be comforting.

"Good. So, we're gonna work the area one warehouse at a time," Sam said, waving at the twenty miles or so of shipping departments and abandoned warehouses.

"We going in together or separate?" Kat asked leaning over a duffle and taking out assorted weapons quickly.

"We like to stick together," Sam said for both himself and his brother. Kat looked up slowly, silently asking where she belonged, in the 'we' or outside of it. "All three of us together would be safer," he said. She nodded, flicking through her knives with thought. "Here," Sam said, standing up and passing her a thick blade with symbols etched into it.

"No way," Kat whispered. "This kills demons, doesn't it?" she asked. Sam nodded slowly. "How did you get this?"

Sam swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck anxiously. "Um, we got it off a demon," he said awkwardly. Kat nodded, flipping it over in her hands.

"Don't you need it?" she asked softly, looking back at him almost regretfully.

"Nah," he said with a wave of his hand. "We have another from a friend."

"Great," she said thankfully, standing up and strapping a pistol to her thigh after checking the ammo and laying the knife carefully on the bed.

"Pistol?" Sam asked eyeing the weapon. She tossed him a case of ammo.

"Me and Jamie figured out how to mix salt into the bullets," she said as she buckled the holster. She lifted her shirt slightly, strapping on another holster and slipping the knife into it. She tried not to notice how Sam's eyes widened at the sight of the scars across her skin. She lowered the fabric again and reached for her container of holy water, dabbing it along her skin at the wrists and around her neck.

"What is that, perfume?" Sam asked in confusion. She turned back to him and shook her head, holding the container out to him.

"Holy water," she said seriously. "I plan on fighting and I want it to hurt him every time he lands a blow." Her eyes darkened for a moment, before she shook her head and eradicated it. He took the container with a smile.

"Why haven't we thought of that before?" Sam asked, dabbing some on his skin. The door opened and Dean walked out, followed by a cloud of steam and his hair was wet and sticking up in places like a little boy's. Kat stopped the line of thinking because his body was nothing like a little boy and it was on display, with nothing but a towel riding low on his hips. She rubbed a hand distractedly over her cheek to check if her mouth was open. She found it was and shut it quickly, trying to pull her eyes from the man before her and failing as she followed a drop of water sliding down the tan planes of his chest and his defined abs and stopping at the knot of his towel. She blinked, pulling her eyes back to Sam, who hadn't stopped dabbing water to his skin.

"Dude, is that perfume?" Dean asked, racking a hand through his short hair and making it stand even further on edge. Kat didn't think a man should be allowed to look that beautiful.

"W-what's that?" she asked suddenly, cutting off Sam's rushed defense of his masculinity and staring at Dean's shoulder.

"A scar," the man said after a moment of silence where Kat stared at the pink handprint still dripping water from the shower. Her hand slipped to her left wrist, where a black bandana covered a mark of her own, the coolness felt through the fabric.

"In the shape of a hand?" she asked, flicking her eyes back up to Dean's quickly. His lips were set in a firm line and his fingers twitched at his side and cast droplets of water on the floor.

"Obviously," he quipped. He sighed, taking away the hostility from his stance. "I got it on the way out of Hell," he said softly. She knew that meant the conversation was over and nodded her understanding. "And dude, stop wearing chick's perfume," he said to his brother, grabbing his clothes and heading back to the bathroom.

"Not perfume," Sam grumbled defiantly, pulling Kat from her own thoughts. She flicked him with some, sprinkling his face and neck. "Hey!" He flicked her back, watching her break out into laughter and responding with his own.

But the time Dean came back out they were half-drowned in holy water and laughing like maniacs.

"Idiots," Dean said after one look at them.

She smiled up at him and shook out her hair, watching as he grinned and jumped back. He was too late, and the front of his shirt was drenched and spotted and she couldn't contain the grin. Before she was aware of what was happening, she had moved towards him, standing just in front of him. She moved her hands up, skimming them along his neck and rubbing water from her hands along his skin. Her touch was feather light, her fingers tracing the veins in his neck and her eyes followed the trails of water, curling along his skin. "There," she said, stepping back. "You're safe now."

"Why did you just rub me down with perfume?" he asked huskily, his voice only a hoarse whisper.

"It's holy water," she said softly, as he stooped to grab his guns, strapping them to his body along with other weapons. He looked up and grinned.

"That's good," he said. "Cause if it was perfume, I would have killed you."

"Sure," she said skeptically, tossing him another round of ammo and waiting for Sam to freshen up. They left a few moments later, and she was antsy in the car, nervousness rushing through her system until she was wired thin and hyper aware. Dean kept shooting her glances she thought were supposed to be calming but to her they looked worried and anxious and they didn't help the fluttering in her stomach.

Thoughts buzzed through her mind and the end of something huge was in sight and she couldn't comprehend it being over. She had no idea what she would do afterwards, when there was nothing left to force her out of bed in the morning. When there wasn't a monster to kill. Finishing something this big, at twenty-two, where was she supposed to go?

"Do you think I'd do well in college?" Kat asked suddenly, thoughts on the future for once in six years and she just wanted to know how the words would taste when she said them aloud.

"You'd go stir crazy," Dean said flatly at the same time Sam added his own words of encouragement.

"You'd really like it!"

"Why?" Dean asked, not allowing her to brush it off and continue to stare out the window.

"I was just wondering…about the future," she paused, her brow furrowing as she thought. "Not that I'd give up hunting, it…it was just a thought."

"You should think about it, it's a great opportunity," Sam said, looking back to smile at her.

"You do what you think is right," Dean said, his eyes darker on the road ahead and Kat wondered why.

"Where will you go?" She asked carefully.

"We still have to find a way to stop the Apocalypse," Dean said bitterly, and Kat remembered that this wasn't their definitive monster. This wasn't the force that drove them for years. This was another hunt.

"Do you know how you're going to do that?" she asked, trying to keep the skepticism out of her voice.

Dean was silent for a moment before sending her a sharp "No," that she thought wasn't meant to sound so harsh.

"Do you need help?" She asked softly, as if her contribution would not add much but she was there if they needed her, and the possibility of rejection scared her. She kept her breathing even as Dean's eyes flickered to the back seat again.

"You offering?" he asked.

"Depends on the answer," she avoided, her eyes shifting back to the asphalt outside her window for a moment. "I won't tip the scales, but maybe an extra hand could do some good," she added after a moment.

"We wouldn't turn down help," Dean admitted after a moment of silence in which Sam stared at his brother in shock and looked like he was about to say something. Dean pulled to the side of the road, a sea of warehouses in front of them and the wheels stopped and scattered gravel and Kat smiled at Dean in the mirror. He thought it was softer than any other smile he'd received from her. There was something innocent in the way she gave it to him, and it reminded him of how preschoolers smiled to make friends. It was something like that and he didn't mind.

Both slipped from the car easily, as Sam blinked as if waking from a dream, the shock and near confusion in his eyes and he stood too, flicking his vision between the two hunters as if searching for a codex within their movements. He thought if he found one it would be in some obscure language he did not know. He would never truly understand either of them.


	17. Chapter 17

Dean stood in the early morning light, his back cracking and muscles pulling and releasing as he walked to his trunk and popped his Toy Box. Weapons were passed down a line and strapped to bodies and he thought Kat must be wearing an armory at this point. The sun was rising over the city, casting every broken window and shattered beer bottle in golden light and it made the abandoned section of town glow. He thought it was a good day for demon killing, brighter than most. Maybe that was a good sign.

Kat turned slowly, blueprints in hand as she searched for Warehouse 14, completely abandoned and shut down years ago, more decrepit than the rest. She tilted her head in the appropriate direction and the boys nodded their understanding in silent communication. She slipped the plans into her back pocket and gripped a sawed-off tightly between her fingers. She walked in a straight line with Sam and Dean, no one person leading the way, and they side-stepped glass and trash as one.

She reached the entrance and stopped, looking at the boys levelly. "We need to find the cage," she said and Dean thought he caught a flicker of something in her eyes as she said it. "If we're lucky, all of them will be there. If we're not…Sam I'll need you to get the kids we find out," she said strongly. He nodded reluctantly, and gripped his own weapon tighter.

Dean nodded to both of them and led the way inside, pausing to take in his surroundings. The inside was a maze of cardboard boxes and lumber, branching off into three ways and he could see Kat curse from the corner of his eye.

"Do you know what this is for?" he asked quietly, sure no company would just leave everything here. She rolled her neck and flicked her wrist slightly, calming her muscles.

"He wants to separate us, or fake us out, or something," she whispered. She shook her head, starting off towards the center branch.

"So you're just going to give it to him?" Sam asked, looking at her as if she were insane. She turned back slightly, her eyes dark and grim.

"It's always better to play by his rules," Dean supplied before she could speak, heading off down the right corridor. Sam sent a lingering look at his brother, before starting off towards the left. Kat turned back to the road ahead of her and sighed, the sound echoing off the walls of thick brown paper.

She started off down her branch, each step pumping through her ears until it matched the staccato beat of her heart. Every turn was met with a raised gun and a furthering of paranoia because it wasn't supposed to be this easy. Every passing rat made her turn sharply, her finger so close to pulling down on the trigger. Every second was another she could barely breathe.

She hated his psychological games the most. When fear reigned in her system and all she could do was ride it out in waves of terror and try not to empty her clip on the next roach that scuttled across the cement floors.

When she finally reached the center of the makeshift labyrinth, it was with something like relief and something like fear. That metal cage loomed before her and memories of splitting screams and hollow words of comfort played across her mind until she only moved forward on autopilot.

The cage was split down the middle, vertical bars on all sides and concrete floor beneath. One side was empty, russet stains spattering the floor and the lack of a body made the image even more frightening to her.

The second half was clean, the concrete floor unstained and containing three children, two girls ages about ten and five respectively and a little boy of maybe three. She couldn't help but feel a sick jealousy at the state of them, clean clothed and, by the soft glow of their faces, fed recently. No cuts or bruises marred their skin and the slight paleness was the only unnatural element to them.

The girls were sleeping, the boy sitting between them with a worried frown on his face as she approached him and bent to her knees. She could hear Dean's distinctive steps behind and her and was grateful he could pick the lock in only a moment. She was never good at it.

"Julie!" the little boy shouted and for a moment, she thought he was talking to her. She tilted her head and waited. "Julie's real hurt, hurt bad," he said quickly and she wondered if it was normal for such a small child to be so coherent. "You gotta save her! Save her!"

Dean picked the lock as Sam ran up to them, immediately rousing the two girls and calming them as they cringed away and began crying. Kat flicked her eyes to them as Sam talked them down slowly, his voice soft as he promised them salvation. The little boy was still looking at her, stumbling out of the cage and in front of her with earnest brown eyes.

"We's fine!" he insisted as Dean tried to check him. "Julie got hurted bad by bad man. Man wiv the bwack eyes," he said, looking at Kat seriously, trying to convey his truth.

"I know, we're going to save her," she promised, scanning the boy for injury.

"Pwomise?" he asked as Sam picked up the smaller girl, cradling her to his chest while she cried for her parents and her sister while the older girl held his hand and tried to fight off tears.

"I promise," Kat responded, linking her pinky with his. He offered her a weak smile and glanced back at his sisters. "You have to be strong for them," she said, following his line of vision. "You're the man of the group here." Dean and Sam shot her hard looks, but she ignored them, looking instead at the little boy. "What's your name?"

"John," he said softly, looking down.

"I knew a John," she said softly, leaning even lower to keep eye contact with him. "He was a very brave man, but you're even braver, I think," she whispered, so that Dean and Sam couldn't hear her. "Now I need you to go with that tall man, and he'll make sure you're both safe. And before you know it, you'll be back with your sister. Can you do that for me?" she asked, looking at him intently until he nodded strongly, his lower lip sticking out slightly.

She smiled at him, that soft one again, and nudged him along to Sam, watching him walk away like a warrior might and Dean could see her with a sword at her hip. She turned away and her eyes hardened with the movement.

Dean had never seen another hunter so good with kids, gentle and firm all at once and gaining their trust more quickly than he thought was possible. Just another thing that reminded him of a mother, the way she could make someone believe everything was alright.

He watched his brother lead the children out and was surprised they were alright. In his experience they were never alright and the blood on the cement floor extended to both sides and there was no mercy. Especially not where Alistair was involved.

Kat recaptured his attention as she cracked her neck and twitched her fingers and started walking, and he caught the lingering look she gave the bloodied cell, like she was promising it something. But maybe he was overanalyzing.

He walked with her, urgency rushing through his system and he could see it in hers, the brightness of her eyes tinged with repressed anger and guilt and he could see the vortex of emotions behind that blue for the first time. She made it to the far right corner, every muscle in her body wired and on edge and he could practically feel her heart pumping through the air.

She moved to the trap door he didn't even notice as if she'd seen it all her life, barely pausing as she descended the stairs, each step making her cringe internally. She stopped when she was halfway down, looking up at him, shadow clouding half her form and he thought her eyes looked luminous.

"Stay here," she said shortly.

"No."

"Please," she nearly begged, his fingers tightening on the railing of the stairs and he thought they looked too rusty to be wood. Too stained. His stomach rolled when he realized it was blood. He shook his head slowly, taking the first step down and thought the wood felt swollen with wetness, blood soaked into the grain.

"I can't, just like you can't," he said slowly, reaching her and walking down the rest of the way, hardly breathing until his boots found concrete again.

"Fine," she whispered, her eyes looking far away. "Just-just be careful," she whispered.

He nodded, deciding not to read into it and just accept it and move on. Her steps were lighter than his, but they were even in their strides, neither taking the lead. The wet catacomb of cement of the basement was crushing down on his senses and every moment he spent walking and breathing was another he could feel his blood pumping faster. It was too dark too see well.

He could feel the shift in the air the moment Kat stopped, her eyes closing and her breath hitching slightly and he stopped too. "What?" he whispered softly, afraid to raise his voice. She raised her hand, signaling for him to be quiet. He reached out with his senses, waiting for something to hit him.

Then he heard the screams.


	18. Chapter 18

**I know in comparison to my other stories, this one isn't getting much attention, and i figured it wouldn't- but i really would appreciate some reviews. All my love!**

**-Han**

They were running, stealth abandoned at the foot of the stairs, and their boots echoed off the walls every time they hit the ground. Dean wasn't sure how she passed him, but she was skidding the last few feet to the end of the hall, her hands in front of her as if she expected to fall. Her hands lay flat against a metal door and he noticed almost offhandedly that she paused, her head bowed as if it was painful to move.

He reached her a moment later, and his hand fell to the handle at the same time as her and she nodded, almost to herself. He could hear the screaming better from there, the high single chord of choked desperation and pain. He remembered those, causing them and making them. When all you knew was the hurt and you didn't even realize that that suffocating sound of fear and pain was coming from you.

His eyes flicked to hers, seeing the way she had to shake herself, bringing herself back down to Earth with the action, and he wondered where her mind had been. He leaned down, deftly picking the thick lock and he noticed how her hand had whitened on the handle. She yanked it open before he could move completely out of the way, and he had to jump at the last minute to avoid it slamming into his shoulder.

The walls inside were moldy with age and seasons, cracked concrete near the corners. Blood dotted the floor, spattering it like abstract art pieces that should have been featured in a museum, but they both knew what the pain was made of. Dean saw the row of weapons first, toys to the demon he remembered, laid out so carefully. It reminded him of a doctor's tools, each one having a specific purpose. Off center to that was his makeshift rack, this one laying down, a flat metal table. Elevated to mid-stomach, thick chains from each corner, gripping the small limbs of a pale little girl, stretching her outwards.

Kat's eyes were riveted on the girl, taking in every cut, every bruise, every scrape. Shoulder length red hair fell in waves around her face, sticking to her forehead, slick with sweat and blood. Rusty stains across her cheek stood out against pale skin and a small spattering of freckles. Thick gauze padded her upper arms and calves and open slices along her thighs and forearms made both hunters cringe.

She couldn't have been older than seven, denim shorts and a T-shirt, Barbie sandals proclaiming her to be young and innocent and too pure to have to go through this. Dean stepped forward, every nerve in his body begging for her to be free, every cell alive with the purpose and the need to be the one to do it.

"Ah, ah, ah." That nasally voice floated through the heavy air and Dean froze, his body stopping before his brain could even comprehend the weight behind the sound. The one speaking it. Somehow he knew that Kat had stopped, eyes wide and empty to the rest of the world, only seeing the one before her. "Hold your horses there, Dean-O."

It was like a teacher scolding an ignorant child.

"Alistair." The name was a sneer, dripping from Dean's tongue like acid and that was what it felt like beneath his skin, rolling inside of him until it was spit out.

The demon emerged slowly from the darkest corner, shadow slipping off of him until the face of his new body emerged. Clean cut lawyer type, expensive suit splattered with blood and sweat stains. His skin was a flawless pale that spoke of too many days and nights in an office, his brown hair and eyes deep and almost commanding. His voice should have been strong and deep, but it wasn't.

"How you been, Dean-O?" the demon asked, his eyes sliding to the girl still unconscious. "You want a turn with her?" he asked with a grin.

"Shut up you sonofabitch!" The word was slurred together like a title, fury laced into the words and Dean's eyes until he wondered if a glare could kill a demon.

"Now, there's no reason for coarse language," the demon replied with a grin, taunting, teasing. Molten fire burned through Dean's veins and everything in him was fighting to not be afraid. Not to succumb to the fear he remembered from Hell, when every moment was another he was fighting to retain some form of his own humanity. Be more than the attack dog Alistair had carved him to be.

Dean exhaled as the demon's eyes slid to Kat, and he could feel the stiffness of her spine through the air between them, the sharp, shallow breathing sounding to his ears.

"Oh, it's our_ favorite _friend," Alistair cooed, a smile on his lips, excitement in his eyes and Dean noticed her breathing had stopped. "How ya been, Angel?"

The name made her breathing start again, quick and unhealthy sounding, like she had been running miles and miles. Her eyes flicked across the room, like a caged animal and Dean wondered if she was.

"I almost didn't recognize you," he said softly, ambling towards her almost gracefully, like the snake he was, his head at an angle as if inspecting a fine piece of art. "You have gotten _so _beautiful." The voice was a whisper, something Dean thought sounded like a lover might breathe across a pillow.

Her head jerked up slightly, as if she were forcing the comment to roll off of her skin. Kat's eyes cut to Dean as he breathed in deeply, sending her a signal to copy his movements. She nodded slightly, repeating his soothing motion and Alistair caught the movement.

"Oh, my, you have…fallen behind," he said disapprovingly. "I thought I'd rid you of _trusting. _You do know you can't trust anyone but _me_," he said with a grin. "I'm the only one who's kept all my promises."

"Shut up!" she said suddenly, her eyes scrunching shut and her fists balling and Dean could see the whites of her knuckles and he saw the girl on the table twitch.

"Aw, didn't you miss me? I know I missed you," he said with a smile. "You were going to be my best little weapon…all I had to do was finish _breaking you_."

If Dean hadn't known before, he knew now. His chest tightened and he had to resist the urge to tell her he knew how she felt. He had to resist the urge to turn and look her in the eyes, searching for the pieces of the broken thing he housed in his soul and connect with it.

"What? You don't remember our play time?" he asked, walking ever closer, each step taking an eternity. "I replicated it all, just for you."

"Why?" she asked, her clipped responses making a shiver roll down his spine, but he didn't say anything because he was an outsider.

"Because…" he said teasingly, a smile on his lips. "Because I love breaking and building and you were going to be built so high…so…perfect. My perfect little Angel."

"And it took you six years?" she asked tersely.

He frowned, distaste evident in the purse of his lips. "When those….hunters stole you from me, I was back in the pit. Then…Dean-O here came along," he said, regaining his smile. "He was so _fun _to break, almost as fun as you, Angel. My win with him put me topside. But oh, all those _angels _and then the _war, _it was all impossible for me to get away to see you. I am so sorry you had to wait this long."

"Didn't Sam smoke your nasally ass?" Dean asked, suddenly pulling Kat back from the place within herself he could feel her falling into.

"Tried," Alistair said bitterly. "But oh, Dean, he was just so worried about you…he didn't quite finish the job," he said softly.

"Let the girl go," Kat said suddenly, looking up and into the demon's eyes and the fear and shame she could feel in her expression made her sick to her stomach. "She's not a part of this."

"It was the only way to ensure your arrival," he said with wide eyes, as if shocked at her scolding. "We really do have a lot of ground to recover here, you really have fallen behind."

"I'm so fucking sorry," she hissed, her voice coming out vicious and low and Dean smiled. She sounded like a hunter.

Alistair seemed to move almost gently, towards her, further away from the little girl on the table. An almost imperceptible smile rose to Kat's lips as the demon moved closer, each step echoing off the walls around them.

"Oh, don't worry, Angel. We have so much time to work on that."

"We do," Kat said with a nod. "You don't." Then, she acted.


	19. Chapter 19

Dean felt her move before he saw it, felt the air around him change as her body was removed from it and flung at the demon in front of them. When his eyes caught up, she was landing the first punch, her rings pushing into the demon's skin and forcing it to turn away from her in a sharp snap. Dean shook himself, instinctively rushing to the little girl with nearly clumsy movements drenched in worry. _Victim first, victim first, victim first,_ the thought blurred in his head until it meshed with the beating of his heart, and he heard the sick sounds of punching behind him- wet smacking of meat.

Kat skidded to the side, her ribs blooming with pain from Alistair's quick and sharp punch. Her arm jerked back, driving an elbow into his solar plexus, and she could feel the air escaping his meat-suit. Before she should pull away, he flung an arm across her chest, pulling her against his body. She struggled, squirming and writhing until she felt she had rug burn from the motion of fabrics dragging across her skin. He held her firmly and leaned close to nuzzle her neck almost affectionately. The holy water had evaporated everywhere except on the collar of her shirt, still damp and retaining water and she was praying he would brush against it by accident.

"Oh Angel, you should know by now," he hissed in her ear, his lips ghosting over her skin and she shivered in disgust, her neck arching away from him and she felt like his skin was blistering hot and slimy at once. "Fighting it only makes it all hurt more later."

Dean's fingers slipped numbly on the locks, sure he was bruising his fingertips to crack them open with his equipment. His spine stiffened when he heard the words and he sent a fervent glance at the girl who'd yet to rouse herself from unconsciousness. He turned, grabbing the first weapon from the medical table to the left of him and spun, the serrated knife raised. By the time he turned and flung himself at Alistair, Kat had caught onto his movements and had dropped to the ground, rolling away quickly as the knife embedded itself into Alistair.

The demon winced hollowly, pulling it slowly from his shoulder with distaste. Dean cursed to himself and reached behind his back for his own knife. Before he could raise it, Kat had bowled Alistair over at the knees, slamming her fists into his ribs as she crawled up his body.

She and Alistair grappled and for a moment Dean remembered how he and Sam used to wrestle on motel floors when they were young. Alistair managed to flip them over and he was straddling her waist and Dean was moving towards them with his knife raised to take advantage of it. He could see Kat's eyes dilated with sensory memory. The demon's hands wrapped around her neck, and he screamed when his skin touched the damp edges of her shirt. She used his distraction to kick her leg up and flip them over, her eyes stone again as she regained control, her heart still pumping too fast.

"Fuck, I had an open!" Dean shouted at her, moving quickly to pry Alistair away from her as he tried to flip them again. The demon was standing again and ready to attack, reaching for any weapon he could and ending on a brand. Dean's eyes widened, the pupil shrinking quickly at the sight of white-hot metal in front of him. It seemed to wave tauntingly before him, like a pendulum that knew it would hit its target eventually.

Dean wasn't sure which of them started moving first, but in a moment he saw Alistair swing the brand like a bat at his body, the sound of metal slicing through still air almost haunting. Either before that or in the same moment, he stepped forward too, knocking the metal out of the way with his leather-covered arm, hoping to dull any of the fire that might sear him. He breathed deeper when he caught more of the cool end, only skimming his jacket on the white-hot point. For a moment he waited, expecting pain from the searing end of brand but it didn't come. His father's old jacket had protected him and he was infinitely happy he managed to keep it all these years.

Kat was scrambling to her feet, a shallow gash on her arm burning across her skin; the pain was almost numbing. She looked up in time to see Dean's head jerk violently to the side, a grinning Alistair withdrawing his fist smeared with blood.

"Move faster next time!" She shouted back to Dean, cutting across his path as he recuperated from the punch and slashing upward with the knife Sam had given her. The blade grazed Alistair's cheek, an unearthly scream ripped from the demon's lungs and emptied into the air and the little girl was finally waking up. Kat hated how she treasured the screams that poured from Alistair's body, like they were the quintessential singing choir of angels. It made her feel powerful, real, like for the first time in her life she was actually alive.

The sensation was ripped from her when the demon snapped back into reality and backhanded her, snapping her body to the side and she hated how she crumpled like a fifties housewife. Dean took up where she left off and drove his fist into the demon's jaw and his knee into his gut. Dean felt a sick grin come to his face at the grunt of pain from his enemy. Dean flicked his left wrist, his blade preparing to shoot upward into the demon's chest cavity and end it all.

Alistair's hand shot out and pushed Dean's away, wrenching the blade from his grasp and sending it scattering across the floor. Another punch to Dean's gut and he was doubled over. Kat took the opportunity to jump the demon, again, pushing him into the concrete with bruising force. She straddled his hips, trapping his legs beneath her.

"Oh, you're kinkier than I remember," Alistair purred, his hands ghosting over her hips for a moment. Her face twisted in hate, her eyes seemed to darken until they were midnight blue and alight with fire all at once. A snarl built in her throat.

"And you're weaker," she hissed, too lost in the moment to take the opportunity to stab him. His hands drifted across her hips. "What happened to that big bad _demon _now all I see is a scared little boy," she said, her eyes flickering over his face with something like interest. A distant kind of fascination she was struggling to keep in front of her fear and panic and she was proud to say that Alistair didn't see through her.

His gentle fingers turned bruising at her comment and she could feel his nails digging into her skin. He flipped her again, sending her own knife scattering and Dean was just reaching his, his fingers curling around his blade and preparing to get back in the action. The little girl- Julie, had fully regained consciousness, crying loudly for her little brother and thrashing on the table like she expected to be hurt again. Only one of her limbs was unchained by Dean's work, her arm clawing at her other chains, panic in her eyes.

Kat could feel Alistair's breath on her neck as he bore down on her, the serrated knife he'd previously pulled from his shoulder in his hand, and he drew it across her collarbone. Her back arched in pain, her eyes shut for a moment and shot open again. She bucked her hips up, trying to force his body off of hers. He laughed, sitting back on her hips, straddling her and catching her thrashing arms with one hand.

"Remind you of old times?" he whispered, a smile on his lips. The weight from her vanished as Dean kicked him in the head, sending him flying from her body. She breathed deeper as air seemed to flood into her lungs and she hadn't realized she'd been holding it in. She rolled to her feet, scrambling towards her knife and she could hear Alistair behind her, could hear Dean rushing to stop him before he grabbed her.

She slid the last few feet to the weapon, dropping like a baseball player would in a rush to home plate, snatching the hilt and turning on a dime, the blade pointed upward.

Alistair seemed to fall in slow motion, plunging his own blade towards her and she could feel it biting shallowly into her stomach, long enough to need stitches later. As his abdomen bent to stab her, her arms raised higher, digging her own knife into his chest. Flickers of yellow light burst from the wound and she twisted it for good measure, satisfied with the cracking of bones that sounded through the room as she did. She felt Alistair being pushed again and realized that Dean had stabbed him in his spine only a moment after her, and maybe they were both the ones to drain the life from their enemy. Maybe they killed him together.

Before the light died in the demon's eyes, before the full blackness was sucked from them, Kat pulled the dying body closer to her, so she could whisper to him. Dean couldn't hear what she said, but he felt like he didn't have to. Her voice was a hiss, rough and slick at once and vengeance felt like victory.

"_You took everything from me,_" she whispered, her teeth gritting against her own pain and the demon's eyes looked frantic in his last moments that seemed to take hours to pass. "_You__ lucky this is all I'm giving you." _Her wrist twisted again and the scream that filled the room was feral and animal and Kat couldn't hold back the smile as Alistair's head snapped back as if trying to talk to Dean upside down. Yellow light crackled in his eyes and mouth and the two wounds and when it was over Dean was the first to pull his knife out.

He stepped back as if in a daze and it was actually over. He pulled the body off of Kat gently, setting it to the side and it fell limply, like a broken doll. He helped her up, her fingers felt numb to his hand, but it might have been his skin. She rose unsteadily, taking a moment to breathe and he could see the slowly growing russet stain on her top. The two of them stumbled towards Julie, who had turned her face away, her eyes scrunched tightly against the room and the bloodshed.

Kat reach her first, running a gentle hand over the child's forehead. "Shh," she whispered, trying to console the girl as she cried. "It's all over. Where are you hurt?"

"Everywhere," Julie whimpered as Dean unlocked the remaining chains. "A-are they okay?" she asked fearfully.

"John and your sisters are fine," Dean said softly, and Kat was shocked by the gentleness in his tone. "But…your parents…" he trailed off, looking almost lost.

"I know," she whispered, her voice slurred slightly with pain and her young age. Dean picked her up gingerly, her thin arms wrapped loosely around his strong neck. Kat followed him out of the room, casting a last look at the room and the demon and she couldn't bring herself to smile.

Xx

When the light hit her eyes again, she blinked almost lethargically, and she wished she could lie down and sleep. Dean had taken to whispering encouragingly to Julie, learning of her living grandparents down the street from her, and prepared to tell Sam to call them. Kat was drifting behind him like she was sleepwalking; each movement seemed to be taxing and all at once he was wondering how much blood she had lost. It hadn't looked to be too much.

Sam had called an ambulance, his tall body refusing to leave with the three children until he saw his brother. When Dean came into view carting a bleeding seven-year old and Kat half-stumbled behind them, he exhaled deeply. The EMT's loaded Julie into the bus carefully, her slight body shuddering with pain at every movement. When John made to ride with her, Kat nodded tiredly and went with him, folding her body into the seat and pointedly ignoring anyone who tried to help her with her wounds. John sat quietly in her lap, clutching his big sister's hand. Before the doors closed, Dean saw the soft smile she gave the boy, soft and relieved.

Dean got the other two girls in the back of his car, placing them carefully on the leather and moving Kat's sketchbooks away from prying eyes. He and Sam closed their doors and settled into their seats.

"Is he..?" Sam asked, his eyes flashing to the children in the back.

"Yeah," Dean breathed, and his voice was hoarse, like it was unused.

"And?"

"We both got a hit, we both killed him," he said and there was something close to pride in his voice. "She knew him. She knew him like I did, Sammy," he said softer.

"She was-" Sam stopped himself before he could finish, his eyes sad on his brother. Dean's knuckles whitened on the wheel.

"Yeah."

He drove them in silence, the girls quickly falling asleep in the back, oblivious bliss in the back of his car. When they pulled into the closest hospital, Dean and Sam each took a girl, hitched at the hip and carried without complaint to the waiting room of doom. Kat and John were already there, she still refused to be seen to. Dean sat next to her, watching as she listened to something John whispered, and it sounded like a request of some kind. She looked at the other kids, nodding almost hesitantly and humming to herself for a moment. She opened her mouth and Dean thought the moment lasted a while, as others in the room looked up.

"_When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom let it be,"_ she sang with a lack of shame and a slight smile. John hummed along, his face against her neck. The other two sang along off-key in childish voices and it made Dean fight off a shiver. Her voice filled the dim waiting room and captured every person's attention. A small family in the far corner, waiting for a car crash victim to come out of ICU stared openly at her, and a young couple next to Sam and Dean started singing along. Then the family joined, then an old man waiting for his wife to have a hip replacement, then the receptionist, then a mother and a child with a broken arm, and then Sam, and then Dean. The next time a doctor came in, he was quiet and just listened to them all grow in volume, until they were a chorus and Dean knew every person in this room would always remember this. As the last line blurred into the air as a mixture of their voices, he saw the tears in almost everyone's eyes. Sam was close to letting them fall and he even felt them behind his eyes. Kat had just gripped a singing and sobbing John tightly and let her voice rise above the rest of ours. "_Speaking words of wisdom, let it be_."


	20. Chapter 20

**I wanted to take the moment to seriously thank Kaoz, who gave me some really great advice to work on- it means a lot. Also to any recent reviewers, thanks so much for the support.**

**-Han**

"Winchester?" a doctor called once they were quiet. Dean looked up in confusion, but distantly remembered that she didn't know her last name. It was still an odd thought, foreign, for her to take his name, like she was part of their family. Like she was a part of them in some irrevocable way.

She stood slowly, John at her hip and her movements slow, tinged on the edges with a pain she needed to tell her this reality was real. "How is she?" she asked softly, huge eyes seeming to swallow her face with worry, and Dean thought for once she didn't look like a hunter.

"Fantastic, considering," the man said with brightness, his warm brown eyes drifting to John in her arms. "We did have to do some stitches, but she will make a full recovery," he said with assurance.

Sam and Dean sighed with relief, but Kat remained stiff and earnest. "Was she…did he…is she still?" she couldn't bring herself to say it. She couldn't bring herself to spit out the words that would cement such an atrocity into reality. She was grateful when the doctor seemed to understand her.

"We found no evidence of rape," he said gently and Kat sighed so deeply her shoulders sagged. Relief etched onto her face, she looked down and smiled hugely at John. The brothers couldn't see it from where they now stood, behind her, but the doctor thought it changed her face immensely. "You can see her now, but we really do have to limit you to two at a time."

Kat walked with John, sending only a small glance back at Dean in parting. He listened to her steps echo off the linoleum and sat back in the hard plastic chair. He wondered distractedly if they made them uncomfortable to screw with you, like you couldn't sit easily when someone you knew was in pain. Maybe you had to suffer like whoever you were waiting for was. Dean sighed, exhaustion creeping in to his body with slow fingers that pressed down on his nerves until he wanted to sleep and never wake up. He shook himself, and turned to the two girls that sat with him and Sam.

"What are your names?" he asked in what he hoped was a soft voice. The elder one, maybe ten, looked up almost fearfully and he winced.

"Amy and Sarah," she said softly, and Dean found himself nodding, turning his bright eyes on her and hoping they conveyed safety.

"And your last names?" he prompted gently, watching Amy's eyes close in concentration as she struggled to remember the simple fact.

"Hendrickson," she squeaked. He smiled, the slightly forced movement of his muscle made his face feel tight.

"You've done good," he said softly. "Just sit tight with Sam, here, and I'll call your grandparents. Then you can go home."

Sam sometimes caught moments where his brother was gentle, with children and victims. They were few and far between, but just real enough for him to remember when they were young. When they were cooped up in motel rooms and Dean gripped a double barrel and Sam gripped a book. When he was afraid of things and Dean had all the answers. Some days, he wished he could go back that ignorance, most days really.

Dean stood slowly, his muscles protesting the movement and fished for his phone. He walked slightly away from them and dialed the local Leos, preparing to make his voice sound unaffected.

"Good morning, this is Agent Lynch with the FBI, reporting the safe retrieval of four children in this area. Amy, Sarah, Julie, and John Hendrickson are all accounted for," he said in a clipped voice, his hand scrubbing at his face.

"Oh Thank God! We've been looking for almost a week! Their grandparents are worried sick! Where are they?" the voice on the other end said with relief. Dean wondered how many times they'd done the cops' job for them. How many times they'd taken the hits for local law enforcement. He felt like Batman, and decided it was okay for Kat to call him that.

"The hospital. Julie received stitches, but we are told the damage was minimal and she will make a full recovery. She was the only one hurt," Dean spouted off, his eyes casting back towards his brother. Sam looked only slightly uncomfortable as he talked to the two girls, those puppy eyes put to use as he pacified them.

"We'll notify the grandparents and meet you in twenty minutes for the kids and your statements."

Dean hung up and ambled out of the hospital and to his car for their FBI badges, flipping them open to make sure he'd given them the correct name. He smiled wryly to himself when he saw Sam's name. He was sure his brother would_ love_ his name to be Agent James Hasselhoff, but sometimes Dean needed a way to amuse himself.

By the time he walked back inside, the mask of an Agent in place, Kat and John were back in the waiting room, talking softly to each other. When she saw Dean, she nudged John lightly and pointed.

"That's Dean," she said softly, her voice almost musically soft. "He's the one that got your sister out."

John turned in her lap to stare at Dean with large brown eyes filled with gratitude and relief. "Thank you," he said in that childish slur that Dean would never admit he found slightly adorable.

"Hey, Buddy," Dean said with a smile, kneeling down to his level. "Your grandparents will be here real soon, and then you can go home. Sound good?" he asked.

John nodded, turning fully and hugging his arms around Dean's neck. The older man froze, taking a moment to equate the feeling of small arms around his body with the admiration John clearly felt. Dean was rarely on the receiving end of admiration and the warm feeling in his gut made him uncomfortable. He wondered how Sam could deal with it so well. He was usually the one getting praise, if they ever got it. It was that guidance counselor way he had to approaching things, the 'please tell me your problem' look that made people pour open and unguarded to his brother. Dean was too rough around the edges, too blunt.

"Thank you for gettin' my sissy out," the little boy said softly, his small face pressed into Dean's neck.

"It's my job," Dean said roughly, discomfort clear in his voice, but he didn't mind.

"Is the bad guy gone?" John asked, like it was the end of an action movie and Dean was the hero. Maybe he was like Batman.

"Yeah, he really is," Dean said in a hoarse voice, pulling back to look John in the eye, forcing truth into his own being as well as the boy in front of him. John nodded, seeming pacified and content with this answer and curled back to Kat, his eyes closing slowly. He turned completely away from Dean, and the hunter was left wondering how the hell a three-year old was that intelligent.

"How was she?" he asked Kat softly, remembering the dead-weight of the little girl in his arms. His eyes met Kat's blue and he remembered what Alistair had said. He pushed it down and reminded himself to bring it up later. He wouldn't let something like that die.

"Awake and kicking. She's a strong girl," she said with admiration in her eyes and she was proud of this girl she barely knew. She saw Dean holding two badges in his slim fingers and reaching awkwardly for her left pocket, balancing John on her thighs. "What are we going with, FBI or Homeland Security?" she asked.

"FBI," Dean answered, passing a quizzical Sam his badge. The younger hunter had seen the tender moment between the little boy and Dean and it made him think. Again he remembered all the times Dean had been there for him. He accepted the badge with sad eyes, the pain of their pasts fresh in his mind. He saw Kat pull out her own and the little boy give them all curious looks. He remained silent, and they were thankful. The other two girls were obliviously talking amongst themselves, sneaking looks at the hunters occasionally.

They only had to wait a few more minutes before an older couple rushing into the waiting room with wide and frantic eyes. The woman gave a noise of recognition at the sight of John, but both stopped short of rushing to him and taking him up in their arms. They had caught sight of the protective way Kat held him and met their eyes, calculating and wary. The couple walked slowly towards the hunters, their eyes flitting between the children.

"Who are you?" the old man asked carefully, as if expecting them all to pull guns and kill him and his wife like the monster that had killed his son and daughter-in-law.

Kat rose slowly, slipping John from her lap, and he latched onto her leg immediately. She held out her badge. "Agent Patricia Benetar with the FBI. And you are?"

"Amelia and Bill Hendrickson," the old woman said with a soft smile, trust creeping into her eyes. Kat scooped up John and handed him over, ruffling his hair in goodbye. He whimpered at the loss of contact with her and she offered him a small smile.

"Go on, big man, go home," she said, watching him carefully as his grandmother held onto him. The group of survivors sent them grateful smiles, before walking slowly to Julie's room, the two little girls holding onto their grandfather like a lifeline.

The hunters waited a few more minutes, breathing deeply and collecting themselves. When the cops finally arrived, they provided clipped statements and false stories and gave the address of the warehouse and the body, telling them stiffly that they were going undercover soon, and wouldn't be able to answer any other questions. The cops said they understood and let them go.

In the parking lot, they moved like the dead, until they saw John running at them, his grandfather trailing behind him with a small smile. The boy ran until he threw himself at Sam, wrapping his arms around the taller hunter and muttering a heartfelt thank you, before jumping to Kat.

She held him like she'd known him for years, like a mother might, and kissed the top of his head softly. "You be good, you hear? I'll come by one day to check up on you, and you better be the best brother you can," she warned, looking at him seriously until the little boy nodded proudly. He shouldered the responsibility like Atlas, willing to take the world onto himself and do right by it. She passed him to Dean, smiling sadly as he curled to the older hunter.

John's eyes were level with Dean's and he felt the kid could see through him, piercing him to the soul until he nodded seriously to himself and spoke so only Dean could hear. "I takes cares of my giwls, if you takes cars of youw's," he said earnestly, his childish speech doing nothing to diminish his meaning, as he glanced back at Kat. Dean followed his gaze and nodded slowly.

"You got yourself a deal, little buddy," he said softly.

"I wanna be a pewson like you. I wanna hewp people," John said softly, hugging Dean around the neck.

"The world needs kids like you," Dean said truthfully, admiration for the little boy he was sure would become a cop, or agent, or join the military. He had no doubt that one day this boy would be helping people. Dean gave him another smile, before setting John down and allowing him to run back to his grandparents. The broken and marred family smiled and waved as the hunters folded themselves into the car and drove away, back to their world, and their problems.


	21. Chapter 21

Kat knew they would ask. From the moment the demon had flaunted it for Dean to see, she knew he would ask. Knew he would tell Sam and the younger hunter would have stared out the window wearing sympathy she didn't doubt was genuine. She knew they would sit her down and make her talk because secrets like that were dangerous. She knew it would only be a matter of time, and she savored the seconds in the Impala. Seconds spent nodding her head along as Dean sang along obnoxiously loud to the music, and Sam complained and things were almost normal. Maybe they were family headed towards the reunion, maybe they were college kids on break. It didn't matter because if people passed them on the road and heard snippets of their conversations, they wouldn't run the other way. They were just people. But the spell was broken when they pulled to a stop in the motel parking lot, and Kat remembered that her hands were bloodstained, would always be. There would always be blood in this Hell they knew as reality. But it was her life, and she loved it.

She made it to the room first, even though she gave up the appearance of toughness halfway there and settled into a limp. She hissed through her teeth as she bent down to her duffle to retrieve her med-kit, the open wound sticking to her shirt, and the pain burned through her mind until it reached her fingertips and made them numb. She perched on Dean's bed, facing away from the door. She hesitated a moment, but reminded herself that they knew she'd been tortured now. It shouldn't matter.

Dean paused at the door, watching her intently as her fingers reached for the hem of her shirt. Her back arched and shimmied as she peeled it from her bloody wound and pulled it over her head, leaving her in only a black bra. His gasp was sharp and audible, in sync with Sam, as they blatantly stared at the skin of her back. She ignored them, choosing instead to douse herself in antiseptic and get out a suture.

"You said it was a tattoo," Dean said finally, his voice sounding hoarse from lack of use, shocked. It was all he needed to say and Kat aimed a black smile ahead of her. He walked around and sat on the bed opposite her, watching as her hand stalled before making the first stitch. She sighed, remembering the white-hot pain and the smell of burning flesh. She made the first stitch, wincing, and looking up at Dean all at once.

"I wish it was," she said calmly, as if it were normal. As if it was normal for the brand to be there.

The wings took up the whole of her back, intricately detailed with every line of every feather in shocking contrast to her pale skin. The raised skin was marred and ugly and beautiful at the same time, horrifically fascinating. She'd always felt a connection to the branded wings spread across her skin. As well as she could taste the pain on her tongue, she couldn't hate them.

"He fucking branded you!" Dean shouted, as if raised voices would bring her retribution and explanations. She made another stitch, the muscles in her stomach quivering around the pain. She met his eyes calmly.

"Did more than that," she said sarcastically, and wished she could take it back a moment later. It wasn't Dean's fault. She shook herself and waited for another line of questioning. Instead she heard Sam approach her.

"Your shoulder," he whispered. "How have you been able to use it?" he asked, indicating her dislocated left shoulder. She shrugged, not knowing. She'd been running off of adrenaline, victory, and a once-dormant maternal instinct. Maybe the combination made her Superwoman.

She finished the last of four stitches, tying it off and cutting the excess string with decisive movements. She set them to the side and leaned forward slightly, holding a rag close to her lips. She looked back at Sam expectantly. He nodded and moved closer, running his fingertips over the space where the joint should have been connected.

"You'll be lucky if you haven't damaged it more by using it," he said in a clear, unaffected voice. She was grateful he was treating things as normal, grateful he was ignoring the wings on her back and was trying to move on. Dean was still staring at her blankly, trying to wrap his mind around the woman in front of him and it was harder than he expected. Harder to relate when he only felt like he was stitched out of scar tissue, and she was. External and internal weren't the same and he knew she would have them run deep until they were scars on her soul and maybe that was never stitched together the right way and they were both dead.

He winced when he heard her shoulder pop back in place, the muffled scream making his head hurt more than it already had and he was happy that Sam had been the one to do it. She shook herself after a moment, as if the pain could be brushed off like dust in the wind and Dean wondered if it would swirl around her like a blanket of some kind. Like the pain suffocated and protected. He remembered her first words to him and nodded to himself, pain's still good, it lets you know you're alive.

He snapped out of his daze enough to hand her his flask, watching her drain half of his Jack in one long drawl. He tried not to be impressed when she didn't wince from the burn. She passed it back and he took it and their fingers brushed. He thought her skin felt numb, but it might have been his. She finished dressing any other scratches and reached for a new shirt. Dean noticed for the first time that her body was more feminine than he'd even initially thought. The gentle inward slope of her waist and her pale skin made her seem almost fragile, if you ignored the scrolling lines and scars across it as if they were artwork. Artwork that many could not stomach that made you think of years of suffering and abuse.

She pulled down her shirt and curled up on the bed, and her eyes fought to stay open. Kat looked up at Dean and met his hard gaze. He'd barely shifted. Her chin tilted slightly upwards and she met the look.

"What?" she asked almost harshly. He took a moment to respond.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" he asked, accusation hovering below the surface of her voice and he wondered who he was accusing.

"Should I?" she asked tiredly.

It took even longer for Dean to speak this time, and his eyes seemed to shift between anger and empathy, the war unending. "It wasn't Jenna, was it?" he asked. Kat sat up slowly, and Sam could see her blue eyes rush through emotions he wasn't even sure she could feel. She was unguarded and it was uncomfortable, like a robot acquiring humanity. "You lied to us."

Kat nodded. "Yeah…yeah I lied," she said softly, looking up. "It wasn't Jenna. It was me. From five to sixteen."


	22. Chapter 22

It was like you could touch the silence, like you could brush your fingers against it and feel the texture. Kat wondered what silence would feel like, rough or soft or something silken. Her eyes shifted between Dean and her hands and she found it easier to avoid his eyes, those eyes that always looked to be burning somewhere deep inside. Animalistic fear and anger rolled inside her chest and she didn't know who it was directed at anymore, Dean, Sam, Alistair. The eyes on her were all a threat in her mind and her breathing was ragged.

She flinched when she felt warm fingers under her chin, pulling it upwards. Her head jerked to the side and she caught a glimpse of Sam's hurt eyes, staring down at her like she was the victim. Like she was the one that had to be talked down from the roof and handled with gentle touches but she was stronger than that. But there was a fear in her heart that was rising too fast for her to bring down and in the back of her mind she realized what she'd just let slip. She'd let them see too far, they knew too much, she wouldn't get out of this without telling them everything, every excruciating detail that would make the pain feel new again.

"What happened to you?" Sam asked, trying to force the hurt out of his voice and he could see her lip quiver. She bit down on her lower lip, scrunching her face up and it looked like she was trying to resist the urge to open up, to pour her marred soul into the motel room for the two hunters before her to see.

"Alistair happened," she whispered, her eyes scrunched so tightly she saw lights behind her eyes. Dean couldn't look at her, look at the broken thing that was a hunter. He had to force down a rough chuckle; all hunters were broken. It was stupid to pretend that they were strong. They were a force of broken men and women deprived of childhoods and homes and they were all dead inside, no matter what Bobby liked to believe.

Kat's shoulders hunched and straightened and her sigh of frustration bled through to Dean and he could feel how much she hated herself. Hated herself like he hated himself on nights when Hell roamed behind his eyes and when Sammy hadn't gotten out of a hunt unscathed.

"He, um, he came for us when I was five," she said, resolving to tell them because some part of her decided they deserved to know. "He took Susie, Andrea, and Jamie outside. Kept me and my parents in the living room." She breathed deeply again, and tried to remember her house. Red walls, she knew that because her mother was a painter, she liked color in everything. That was all she remembered, no pictures or paintings or furniture, except for the cream couch that was stained so red by the time it was over. "He, he killed my parents in front of me, slowly. Dad was first, all he did was scream. I can still hear him in my head sometimes," she admitted softly.

She'd known very little about her dad, always a mama's girl, trailing after her mother like a baby duck and sticking her fingers in the oil paints. Her father was the silent figure in the background, playing cards with Jamie. He was closer to his son and Kat had never thought anything of it as a little girl. Only now that he was gone did she wish she'd had a memory of him.

"My mom, she managed to say goodbye," she said with a watery smile, sniffing back any trace of tears and her eyes misted over in confusion. "She, she told me she was proud of me, and that I had her dreams, but my father's eyes…but his eyes were brown. I think the pain must have gotten to her then. Before she died, she told me that an angel was watching over me, and that Castiel would answer my prayers. And then she was dead," she said with a shrug, her voice higher than normal.

"You said your parents died in a car crash," Sam said roughly, mistrust blanketing his eyes again and his stare was hard on her.

"I didn't want to explain it," she snapped, temper short and body language defensive. "That isn't exactly how I start conversations with people I barely know: 'hi, how are you? My parents were skinned alive in front of me," she said sarcastically.

Dean fixed her with a hard look when Sam flinched back, emotions rolling in his eyes and the look was half understanding and half warning, because Sam always came first. She nodded to him, the slight incline of her head enough to assure him that she understood. She took a breath, preparing to continue.

"He put me in the trunk of the car he'd stolen; the others were tied up in the back seat. He drove for such a long time, I had no idea how long and he never let me out. When the trunk finally opened I could barely breathe. We were at a warehouse, and he dragged me inside, put me in one cell and them in another. I remember Susie screaming to be put with me, but he wouldn't let her."

She swallowed and Dean's back stiffened. He knew what part of the story would come next, the part that was written across her skin for all to see. His gaze had softened, watching her with clear green eyes swimming with empathy.

"The torture- it lasted hours on end, I swear sometimes he went on for days. Mending wounds he didn't like, the scars he didn't like. That magic was just as painful as the torture and he knew it. The whole time he'd be whispering to me, saying things so…so sticky sweet it made me sick," she hissed. "Called me Angel, always Angel."

She paused a moment, pushing down the fear the name alone caused. Dean watched her struggle and wished he could offer her some sort of comfort, but he'd seen the way she flinched at his brother's touch.

"He'd always remind me that it was only by his…his grace that I was alive. His mercy. He was supposed to kill me on sight, some sort of hit from a boss. But, he said I could be great, I could be his weapon. All he had to do was break me," she whispered, her voice cracking on the end. "He hid me away from other demons except for a few that were his understudies, learning torture from him. He kept me for himself… all of me," she whispered, staring at Dean. The question in his eyes made him look innocent and she wished she could give him a different answer.

"He…?" he couldn't seem to finish the question and it hung between them like a private moment and Sam was only looking in. When Kat nodded, Dean's face fell into a rage Sam had only seen on rare occasions.

"I prayed…every night," she confessed quietly, her eyes on her hands again as if they gave her strength. "I prayed to Castiel to save me, save me and my family. But he never did."

Dean's face contorted into rage and it was clawing at his chest, begging to be let out on the angel. He'd come to Dean, every time he'd asked, he'd come when the hunter had called for him, even times when Dean didn't deserve an answer. But he couldn't come for a broken little girl who still had strength to pray?

"He wasn't always there," she started again, her breathing coming less ragged now that she had started to tell her story. "He'd have other, lower level demons watch over us, feed us. They were never as bad as him, only hit me a few times. Nothing compared to him." She swallowed. "Those were the times Andrea, my big sister, would try to teach me things. She'd use pieces of chalk or flint to write on the concrete, taught me everything she knew. Basic math and reading, writing smaller words. She didn't know much, she was only ten when we were taken, but she gave us everything she could. And by the time she was fifteen and I was ten, I could stitch myself up easily and do fourth grade math."

Dean looked away from her, guilt mixing in his blood and it was rising to the surface. He'd always taken education for granted, rejected the chance to learn. She would have killed for that.

"She was the smartest of all of us, always thinking of escape plans," Kat said with a wistful smile and Dean felt queasy. He knew Jamie had gotten out but she never mentioned the others. "She wanted us all out so badly…I remember how loudly she screamed for us to at least be together when we were first there. She pitched such a fit, it got Susie screaming too, and Alistair had to inject them both with some drug to knock them out."

"What about Jamie?" Dean finally managed to ask, part of him praying the kid had stuck to family, like he would have.

She was silent, her eyes flicking up to his again. "Andrea hated him for going quietly; Susie was too young to understand," she said finally, unable to admit his betrayal completely. "It was what I wanted, for him to be safe," she said quickly, her eyes searching Dean's green eyes for understanding. His jaw clenched, a hatred for her brother rising in him before he could push it down. He was sure she could see it in his eyes.

"What about the escape plans?" Sam urged, trying to get her away from that desperate clinging blackness in her own head.

She seemed to come back to herself, hiding away the desperation for love, for family. She was tired of always being alone, only relying on herself. Her eyes scrunched shut as she battled back the want. She wanted to be cared for, looked after as something other than a burden.

"Uh, if I was caught outside of the cell he would…punish me," she said softly, staring at Dean like he could offer her a home. Dazed, confused, wanting. Something in Dean understood what her gaze meant, felt it in his beating heart and empathy was something he felt rarely. But now he did.

"What else could he do to you?" Sam asked fearfully, afraid of the answer and so was Dean.

"That's what I thought," she said, swallowing again and her eyes moved to the floor. "Until he brought in Susie. Carved her up, in front of me, so close to me, and I couldn't do anything. She was only seven," she said, self-hatred burning in her eyes and it was an expression Dean knew better than anyone. His heart had stopped with her admission. "She was only seven!" she nearly screamed, her voice watery and hoarse.

Her tensed back relax slightly when she felt callused fingers brushed against her cheek. Dean's eyes were careful, gauging her reaction as she leaned almost imperceptibly against his hand. She breathed, struggling to push back emotion and started again.

"Andrea couldn't handle what happened to Susie. She never said it but I knew she blamed me," she said softly, another smile on her lips and Dean knew she agreed with her sister. "One night Jamie was taken outside to bathe, and I was stitching myself up. She stuck her arms through the bars, so I stopped and hugged her as best as I could. Something in me knew what she was going to do, and I cried the whole time she pulled in rope and made the noose," she whispered. The brothers swallowed, wishing they didn't have to hear the rest. "She hung herself, right in front of me."

She closed her eyes, unwillingly picturing her sister's limp body, dangling in silent air around her. Vacant eyes staring at her with water around the edges and Andrea had managed not to cry until the very end. And then it was only two or three that traced their way down her cheeks.

"That was the last time I prayed for a long time. I prayed for her to be sent to heaven, where she belonged," Kat whispered after a moment, looking suddenly embarrassed. Dean's hand on her cheek pulled her to look at him, her eyes watery and almost grey. She offered him something like a smile at the warm look he gave her.

"How did you know he was a demon?" Sam asked suddenly. She pried herself away from Dean's comfort and looked up at him. Sam looked at her with a brotherly expression, renewed trust and empathy in his eyes.

"I could see beneath the skin," she said truthfully. "I can with all demons."

"T-that's impossible," Sam said softly, looking at her as if he could see the truth written on her, easy to see.

"Keep going," Dean cut across. He knew she would only say it once, that she wouldn't start again if she stopped. That kind of pain was something she would refuse to relive more than once and he would never blame her for that.

"Alistair caught me praying," she started again, her eyes misting over and she could feel every scar on her skin like new. "Took me to the basement, and I remember the fire in the corner, the…the brand sticking out from it. He told me that his Angel needed wings." She swallowed and winced. "I've never felt pain like that before, not in my whole life."

"And when Jamie came back?" Dean pressed, hoping the end would come soon, and they would move on to a time where she was safe.

"Things went back to normal, except when I looked across the other cell after he tortured me, there was only one person there," she said softly. "Until we were both fifteen. That was when Alistair offered Jamie a chance at freedom, but only if he tortured me for a year."

"He took the offer," Dean said harshly, it wasn't a question. She nodded anyway, looking away from him and his hard eyes.

"It made him cry harder than I'd ever seen him cry, and that was the only time he spoke to me, and all he would say was 'I'm sorry'. Then, when his year was up, Alistair wasn't there. It was clear to both of us that he'd been cheated. He wasn't going to be let go. So I decided to try and escape like Andrea tried. I found an air duct, it came up from the basement and emptied outside about three feet from the ground level. We waited until security was light, and I picked the locks with a needle they gave me to stitch a gash on my hip."

"By the time we were in the vent, the guards were coming for us. It was only three feet up," she said in a whisper. "Jaime climbed up, and I could see the light from outside. I could see the sky. I put my hands on the edge and tried to lift myself. But I was too weak. I was too weak to get up three feet to my freedom, and I could hear the demons coming. They were shouting something about hunters and devil's traps." She paused to collect herself, remembering the way they screamed when John and Bobby had run through, shooting. "Jamie ran, and he didn't look back."

"_Sonofabitch," _Dean hissed, his eyes burning with a hatred that Kat understood. Some days, she wished she could feel it too, she wished she could put some form of blame on her brother. But they were always family, even if Jamie had no ties to her.

"I could tell I was about to pass out, I was losing blood too quickly. I didn't have anything left to lose, so I prayed for the last time. I prayed for Castiel to help me, to save me like my mom told me he would. I was so sure nothing would happen, I was so sure I would die," she whispered, reaching to take off the bandanna bracelet around her wrist, showing the handprint on her skin. "Then someone grabbed my wrist, pulled me out and into the sunlight."

She looked over the print, a constant reminder of her past and of her salvation. She could feel Dean tracing the scar with his eyes and remembered the one on his shoulder. He'd seen horrors she thought were unique to her alone. Maybe they were similar, shared pain, shared experiences, hardened hearts. Maybe they were more alike than they thought.

"My wrist burned, but I didn't care. I could see the whole sky," she said with enchantment in her voice. "I had forgotten how big it was, how blue. When I could focus on the man again, he smiled and pretended to tip his hat, cutting me off when I tried to thank him. He only told me that he owed his little brother a favor," she said with a soft look. "He pointed behind me, but I didn't look away until I'd memorized everything.

"Hazel eyes with a burning sort of gold beneath them, it was always shifting, changing. It hurt my head to look at him for too long," she admitted. "The most beautiful part…were the wings. Huge, I couldn't tell you how big they were, and white, white like purity. White like salvation," she said assuredly. "He was an angel," she said after a moment, looking up to see if they believed her. "I'm sure of it."

She was surprised by the serious looks on their faces, saying they trusted her, they believed her. No one else had, not even Bobby had, when she'd explained it to him weeks afterwards.

"What was he pointing at?" Sam asked. Instead of turning to him, she looked at Dean.

"The Impala," she said, managing a weak smile. "I remember thinking it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I was able to stumble to it, and put my hand against the door frame before I passed out. Bobby found me, picked me up and took me to the hospital with John."

She cleared her throat and rubbed awkwardly at her face.

"Bobby, um, he offered to take me in until I was better. John couldn't stay long, didn't really want to after I told him I wouldn't go back to a normal life. He wanted me to be a normal teenager, but I couldn't," she said softly. "Bobby took me into his home, and gave me everything I needed. He taught me about music and cars and hunting and how to read and write better, even in other languages. Jamie lived with us, but it was really me and Bobby. He took me on my first hunt, he helped me fix up my first car, he bought me the bike, and he's the one who held me when I woke up screaming." She swallowed, blinking back tears. "He's the closest thing to a father I've ever had."

Sam wiped at his eyes, the admission making him treasure the older man even more. Bobby was a rare person, gruff voice and open heart. Sam and Dean wished they could become half of what he was to them.

"He hated teaching me to hunt, didn't want another dragged headfirst into a life that could kill you. But he did it anyway. Sometimes I think he only did it because he knew I would do it on my own if he didn't. God only knows why he cared so much, but he wanted me around," she said with a good-natured shrug and a half-smile. "So, now I'm a hunter," she finished lamely.

Dean refused to cry, refused to let her see the waves of emotion he told himself he'd never feel again. Agony and pain and fear that only Hell managed to bring out of him, clawing at his chest like the Hellhounds that had dragged him to perdition. The woman in front of him had shared a pain he thought was his to bear alone and he didn't know how to feel about it.

When she finally let the dam break and tears slip silently from her blue eyes, he couldn't stop himself from moving slowly and wiping them away with gentle fingers. She met his eyes and broken souls recognized each other, reaching across the distance until Dean contemplated taking her into his arms and holding her.

But he didn't, only held his hand to her face and caught the tears that fell, and the touch sent shivers down her spine. Not quite pain any more, a sensation that made her think of the scars on her back coming alive. Alive and free and away from the pain she knew. Sam now sat next to her and hesitantly took her hand in two of his own, like he could give her strength through the touch. Her eyes stayed on Dean, looking for something, some sort of light in the darkness that was their lives. Praying they might find a way out of the memories they both knew too well. Praying they might escape the crushing reality of the pain they dealt with every day.


	23. Chapter 23

Dean wondered what kind of God could let this happen, let someone like her suffer through something no one deserved. He wondered how billions of people could bow their heads in prayer to a God so uncaring, so cruel as to let people writhe in pain with no help from Hail Mary's. His hand still rested against her cold skin, wetness gathering in the palm of his hand as she cried silently, that soft way that made him think of death on the inside. Like him.

He wondered how a woman like her could stand to stare down the world's evil, head on, despite her past, and get back up and fight again. He remembered all of the times he'd stared into the mirror and told himself that it wasn't worth it. Every time he'd ever gazed into his own eyes and wondered why he had to be the one to face the world, wondered why he had to live like this. Live on the fringe of society, so close to being a part of it and never living in it, a silent guardian to protect the world. She was like that too, he reasoned.

She could never be a part of the functioning world either. Neither of them belonged and maybe they were only ever built to sacrifice. Built to let the world chip away at them until they were only shells of what they could have been and potential was wasted on an uncaring world. They never got a 'Thank you', they never got admiration or a pat on the back. They were strangers to society, strangers to normalcy and the white picket fences. And they didn't give a damn.

His skin felt charged where hers touched him, and his thoughts were sidetracked when she nuzzled inward, her cheek soft on his callused hand. He once read somewhere that broken souls could recognize each other. Maybe that was true. He could tell his touch made her breathing shallow, made her spine stiffen, but neither pulled away because the electricity in his blood was making him feel something for the first time since Hell.

His gaze shifted to the left, where Sam had taken to perching on the edge of the bed, as if afraid to touch her, but looking like he wanted to. His eyes were wet; he wasn't trying to hide it. It was something that Dean would never admit he was proud of, the way his little brother could strip himself of the warrior his father had ingrained in him to show he had feelings. It wasn't something Dean found simple.

He sent what he hoped was an encouraging look to his brother, praying in some corner of his mind that he would be okay. Sam was the type to take another's pain to heart. Sam gave a weak smile in response, his eyes drawn away soon after to focus on Kat. He'd always wanted a sister, someone to protect like Dean had protected him. Now the opportunity was in front of him and he wished Jamie was standing there so he could prove how a brother acts. He wanted to kill Jamie, then bring him back, and then kill him again.

He wanted to protect the broken woman who'd shown him glimpses of the mother he'd never had. The one who looked like she would rather protect him, held children gently, and swallowed the pain like Dean did. Sam wanted a friend, someone who might trust him and care for him the way he would care back. He wanted to make her smile and laugh because he doubted she had in too many years to count.

Part of him knew from the way she leant into Dean's hand, that his brother would be the one to tear down the walls. He would be the one to break through with dirty humor and sarcasm and rare moments of understanding and genuine care. And Sam would be there to offer a shoulder, a smile, anything, because that's what he was good at. It seemed natural for Dean to be the one to break through to the raw, untamed soul beneath the walls and the echoes of screams in her own head. But Sam wanted to be the one to build her again.

It was something he knew he could do, something real and good. No demon blood, no cold looks or mistrust. Just him being the guy he used to be, before the fire in Stanford and the pressure of the hunt. He could be that guy again, he thought, if he had a little sister to model for. Someone to make him want to be better, besides Dean. He'd let Dean down too many times.

She was growing on them like they were growing on her and when she pulled back and wiped her eyes, there was a smile on her lips. That alone was enough to prove to Dean that progress was being made, slowly chipping away at the mask she wore, that they were getting somewhere.

"But, thanks to you both," she said hoarsely, her eyes flitting between the two of them. "He'll never hurt anyone, ever again."

There was gratitude in her voice that Dean found foreign. People rarely afforded them gratitude. It was practically in the job description and to hear it meant things were changing. Dean watched her eyes droop in exhaustion and stood slowly, letting his hand drop from her cheek.

"Get some sleep," he whispered, as he moved to the door. He didn't know why he was whispering, but spoken words seemed dangerous, now. "We'll head out tomorrow."

He deftly grabbed his keys and left, closing the door softly behind him,and ignoring Sam's disappointed look and caring a lot more than he usually did. It was obvious what he would do, find a bar and drink himself into oblivion and forget any remnants of the chick-flick feelings that lingered in his chest. That was the plan, anyway.

On the highway the music was deafening and his knuckles white on the wheel as he drove as if going somewhere. He wasn't sure when he realized Castiel was in the car with him. It was sometime in between a Metallica tape and an AC/DC tape, though. It was also around the time he realized he hadn't stopped at a bar and had just continued driving.

"You heard?" Dean asked, not elaborating and wishing that his voice didn't already sound accusatory, didn't already sound judging. He could tell Cas was staring at him in that way he looked at everyone, like he was staring through you.

"Yes."

"She way praying to you," Dean said softly, sounding tired. He scrubbed a hand over his eyes and wished he didn't have to be asking this at all. It would be easier to pretend nothing had happened; it's what they did with everything else. But this was different. Cas had come every time he'd called, he'd answered Dean's half-assed attempts at prayer. But he couldn't answer someone who needed him?

Someone who deserved better?

"I know," Cas replied gruffly, refusing to meet his eyes.

"And you didn't do anything?" Dean shouted. He hadn't planned on shouting, on letting loose those reserves of pent up anger and frustration on the only angel he could trust. On his friend.

"I couldn't, Dean," Cas said in the infuriatingly calm tone, the one that made him feel like a fourth grader, like he was stupid.

"Why the hell not?" Dean demanded rather than asked, his eyes almost pleading for understanding, lost and alone and in need of guidance. Dean looked to his right and sucked in a breath, locking eyes with the angel beside him.

The eyes staring back at him were pained, showing more emotion than Dean had seen since they'd captured Raphael together in a ring of holy fire. They begged for Dean to listen, for acceptance, for any kind of hope in the storm that Dean faced him with. Those eyes, the ones so bright, so blue, so _familiar._


	24. Chapter 24

Dean felt like crash landing. Weight on his mind and his heart and no burning amber liquid to drown out even the idea of feeling anything besides the sting whiskey made down his throat. His steps were too even, missing the stumbling gate quickly followed by the overpowering scent of cheap beer and even cheaper perfume, a scent Sam had unofficially categorized into Dean's natural cologne. A scent he wouldn't be threatened by when it hit his senses at two a.m., one that would keep him from reaching for his weapon on instinct.

But it wasn't what greeted him when his older brother walked into the room, shutting the door quietly with eyes averted from Sam's confused gaze. Dean could feel sleep eating at his mind, something that seemed almost unattainable as he moved as if through frozen time, each step a burden. The green of his eyes looked murky as they met hazel, a conflict clearly battling it out in his head. Sam opened his mouth, intent to ask and to know, to understand the world around him, the world he couldn't control. Could only learn from.

Dean's look cut him off, that kind of closed-off desolation Sam knew he couldn't tap. He'd probably talked to Cas. The younger brother found Dean often looked like that after talking to the angel, like he'd been told something he'd rather not know. Sam held himself back, taking instead to watching his brother move as if already asleep, kicking off his boots and rubbing his face tiredly. He looked down, blinking as if coming out of a haze.

His eyes were locked on Kat's form, her body curled on the floor, fingers clutching a threadbare blanket like it was a lifeline. Dean sighed, looking up slowly to give a disapproving look to his brother. He knew he'd left her to sleep on the bed. Sam shrugged, unable to find an answer. He'd tried to talk her out of it, convince her to stay still and rest easy. But she'd only dragged her weary body to the ground, her eyes slipping closed within the moment as she tried her best to sleep.

Dean stooped, muscles protesting as he picked her up carefully. His movements were as fluid as he could make them, unwilling to jostle her in sleep. He didn't have to wonder why he was doing it; the notion to give help when it was needed was so ingrained in him he didn't have to think. It was one thing that would always keep him in the life he lived, something Sam could never convince him to give up.

Because Dean wished someone had helped him, had managed to get his mother out, or at least that piece of his father that had been lost amongst the suffocating smoke and high flames. He wished someone had been there for him, that year he didn't talk, refused to open his mouth because it would lead to him choking on sobs and his Dad had told him to stop crying. He wished someone else could have patched up his father after a hunt, taken the anger John sometimes threw at them, raised Sammy away from the pain, been the one to have to look his little brother in the eye and tell him that monsters were real. But no one ever came to help him, and he had to do it alone.

But he could help other people. He could pick up the pieces to another broken soul and he had duct tape in the trunk and that could fix anything. He lay Kat down, covering her quickly with a thicker blanket, and turned his back towards the door to strip down to his boxers. He rolled his shoulders to relieve the tension caused by his talk with Castiel. He turned back, softly nudging Kat towards Sam's side of the room, leaving him closest to the door, because some things would never change. He reached deftly for the nightstand, holding the silver flask in his hand and aware of his brother's eyes on him.

He took a draw, refusing to wince from the burn and he wondered when he'd started to rely on it. Another trait taken from his father, another way Sam could compare him to a little soldier.

His thoughts were torn from the dark corners of his mind as Kat seemed to fall into one herself, the darkness consuming her as her body stiffened sharply. He could see muscles strained through the thin cotton of her shirt, a shiver rolling down her spine, the barest of whimpers escaping slightly parted lips. He winced as she curled in on herself, looking ready to convulse, and Dean could almost see the scream rising in her throat.

Sam saw it too, shifting sharply from where he'd sat on his bed, laptop out and fingers tapping against the keys, to try and help. Before he could fully reach her, Dean had moved, placing a rough hand on her shoulder. The touch was feather light, only enough pressure for it to feel real, something grounded, a tether to reality. Her ragged breathing slowed slightly, the movement of her eyes beneath her lids stilling. He laid next to her, movements careful as he slid an arm across her stomach to cradle her to his chest.

It was something Sam thought he'd never see again. It was what Dean used to do for him when Sam had a nightmare when they were young, even when Dean had become the man their father wanted him to be, a hunter. His older brother would allow Sam to use him as an anchor, Sam's only tether to reality in the storm of blurred images in his own head.

It seemed to work for Kat too, as her body relaxed second after second, until she looked to be at peace for the first time since they'd met her. Sam moved closer, dropping lower to lock eyes with Dean.

"How'd you know that would work?" He whispered, a hint of a grin around his lips at the thought of his brother willing to care about the peace of someone other than family.

Dean gave him a mock glare, green eyes sparkling in the half light of street lamps outside. "Figured she's just like the bitch of the family," Dean said with a teasing grin, watching as Sam's face crumpled into annoyance.

"Jerk."

The briefest of smiles graced Dean's lips, one of the soul-deep, real smiles that Sam would never admit he missed. The woman shifted, drawing their attention once again and Sam wondered if it was only his brother she could touch. His long fingers reached out, brushing softly along her scarred shoulder, hazel eyes absorbing every hitch of breath and twitch of muscles. He exhaled when she shifted closer until his hand lay flat against her skin, the warmth of it catching him off guard.

He looked up at his brother, teasing smugness written across his face as if to tell Dean that he wasn't anything special. He could put her at ease too. Dean rolled his sharp eyes, the green catching the dim light and almost shimmering in the dark. Sam remembered a time when he used to envy his brother, unbreakably strong, eyes that saw the world for what it was and a heart that could take hit after hit. Sam could never be that, would never be that, and suddenly he realized he'd never stopped thinking of his brother that way.

Dean the Protector, the Hunter, the Guide, the tether to the Earth you need when you're spinning out of control. Maybe that was what Kat needed, something to hold onto. Sam withdrew his hand, watching in fascination as the young woman mumbled lightly in sleep and shifted back towards Dean.

Dean could feel the line of her body pressing against every contour of his own, legs intertwined and breathing even, as Sam shut down his laptop and climbed into his own bed. A soft sigh drew his attention and he smiled softly to himself in the darkness. He would never admit that he liked the feeling of her skin against his, only a thin shirt, cotton shorts and a pair of boxers to separate flesh, and he wondered what it would feel like to have nothing there at all. To have soft skin and scars pressed against his own and his hand would rest on her thigh and she would be cuddled against his chest. He stopped himself, prying his thoughts away from the red haze he felt himself diving into. It was easier to just think of her as a hunter rather than a woman. He knew what it felt like to suffer and feel like he had no one to turn to; he could offer a way out to another hunter. He could try to protect them from the terrors in their dreams and the panic in their chests. But if he thought of her as a woman, then he thought of her cuddling to him in the afterglow of a fun night. Thoughts like that were too distracting.

He let his eyes slip closed and pretended that it was his little brother, that he was little again and needed Dean to chase away the nightmares. Because it was something Dean could always be proud of, the way he could calm his brother when he woke up screaming. Some days he missed that, when someone depended on him for something so simple, something he could control and fix with his own strength. Where Dean wouldn't have to see himself as weak, where he didn't have to overthink it or face anything too big. It was just him fixing the problem.

His body froze when she turned in his arms, facing him. He didn't move, eyes opening again to watch her snuggle against his bare chest, cold fingers finding warm skin, and her arms wrapped around his thin waist. Her head tucked into his chest, and he thought he could smell wind. She was changing the rules, slinging a leg over his in a way his brother never had. She was crossing a line Dean hadn't even known he'd drawn and he didn't know how he felt about it. But he found himself tightening the arm around her shoulders and letting himself drift off into peaceful oblivion.

Kat was warm, warm and okay with it. The heat wasn't biting at her senses or sending her back to memories too twisted and painful to focus on. The blanket of warmth around her was comforting, soft and gentle on her skin and she didn't know what to make of it. Some corner of her mind decided that it didn't matter, and she rolled closer to it, eyes refusing to open to any sort of reality. She would, for once, rather dwell in sleep and dreams and places where things weren't real.

Hours later, after dreams had slipped off her skin like satin and her eyes no longer felt heavy, she blinked open to the world. Green eyes met hers, layer upon layer of color and she felt lost inside of them. Kat blinked slowly, like a caged animal wondering whether to run or attack, but held still, her muscles taut. Dean looked at her levelly, caution rising in his eyes as if wondering if he had overstepped his boundaries. She breathed in and out, taking in the way her body was curved to his, and the protective way his arm was draped across her back, pressing against her scars. Her eyes flicked back to him, blue meeting green, curiosity mingled with mistrust until Dean shrugged, offering no explanation because he didn't really need one. He'd done what he'd had to do, like always.

She nodded, a ghost of a smile on her lips and both bodies relaxed, tension slipping away in the mid-morning light. Her head tipped to the side, a request. Dean understood, and shifted to allow her freedom from the cage of his arms. She slipped out of the bed, stretching lazily, ruffling her hair distractedly. He wondered why they didn't need words, only silent communication to understand the gravity behind actions, behind eyes, behind meanings. The warmth left both of them, fleeting hints of heat left behind on skin while cool air invaded. He lay on his back on the bed, tracing the ceiling with his eyes, while she grabbed a duffle and made her way to the shower.

He allowed himself a small grin when he heard the water start. He'd managed to avoid the anger. What he would have shown in her position. But she'd trusted him instead. Just the thought seemed alien when only nights ago she had stared at him with mistrust and distaste. Now it was like they were almost friends, closer than they should be for only partners in hunting. Not even that. He and Sam were partners, she was their tag along. Sam would always come first.

He sighed, scrubbing his eyes tiredly and thought about what Castiel had talked about last night. The conversation was weighing heavily on his mind and on his shoulders and suddenly he wondered how much weight he could carry before he cracked and crashed and broke. He wasn't Atlas, and he didn't have the strength to carry the world.

He heard the familiar purr of his engine and shoved the thoughts aside, saving them for a moment alone with a bottle of Jack and maybe even the stars overhead. Now wasn't the time. Now he had to put on the face of a warrior strong enough to kill the Devil himself, strong enough to take hit after hit and keep going because that was what he was good at. Now he had to get up, stretch out, and strap on his gun and drive to wherever the next monster was.

Sam opened the door quietly, as if still expecting to see Dean and Kat curled around each other like new lovers. He was disappointed when he saw a barely awake Dean and an empty side of the bed. His older brother gazed at him evenly, bed head diminishing any significance Dean's next words might have.

"Food?" Dean asked, voice slightly raspy from lack of use as he ruffled his hair further, short strands sticking out every which way. Sam rolled his eyes and wondered why he ever thought his brother might say something important. He handed Dean his coffee and breakfast, sitting down on the edge of his bed as Dean forced himself to sit up in his own.

"So how should we act around her?" Sam asked, hoping to get his brother talking. More than that, hoping not to tread where he wasn't wanted, to touch what he shouldn't, to speak of something forbidden. Sam liked to be the shoulder to lean on, not the cause of discomfort.

"Like nothin' happened," Dean said with a shrug, breathing in the intoxicating scent of black coffee and greasy breakfast. Dean thought his brother should know the routine by now, it wasn't like this was any different. It was part of the Winchester Way, unspoken rules to remain unspoken, practically part of John's guide for hunters; you don't bring up the past. So they wouldn't.

Dean sipped his coffee and leaned down, rooting around for a shirt in his duffle while balancing his breakfast on his knee. Sam rolled his eyes and checked his laptop, eyes scanning the screen with precision Dean could never achieve.

"Got anythin' new on Lucifer?" Dean asked, still focused on choosing a shirt. He smiled to himself at his choice and set his food aside, slipping the fabric over his head and pulling it down. Distantly, he wondered how Kat would react if he saw him do it, would her eyes be rapt on him?

"Well, now that you're not staring at Kat while she's sleeping…" Sam teased, a smirk on his lips and a light in his eyes that his older brother had missed.

"Bite me," Dean quipped back, eyes rolling as he reached for his coffee again.

"Why don't you ask her?" Sam asked innocently, the smile refusing to die on his lips.

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Neither of them would admit how good that felt. To smile and joke around like nothing had changed since Sam first got back in the Impala so long ago. They felt like brothers again. Funny how the world ending and a traumatized girl could do that to you.

Sam sighed, pulling himself from memories of prank wars and screaming classic rock down empty highways and moved himself to the flimsy plastic table across from the beds, setting the remaining breakfast and his laptop down. He scrolled down the article he'd been researching before he left for his breakfast run. He turned the screen towards Dean, showing an artist's rendering of four men on horseback with dark swirling crowds behind them. Dean looked up from rifling for jeans and studied the picture for a moment, one leg in his pants and one leg out.

"The Horsemen of the Apocalypse," Sam said shortly, as if everything he'd ever have to say was summed up in the simple words, even though he knew it wasn't. When his brother fixed him with the look that said 'explain', Sam grinned. His brother was so much more than Sam, but the younger hunter would always have this over Dean. The virtually unlimited answers he held made him feel important, like Dean actually needed him there. Not like the tag along kid he was when they were younger. "Written here, each one, Pestilence, Famine, War, and Death, bring on a different chapter of the End of Days, driving Earth closer to oblivion. Lucifer's got to raise them."

"And how would we stop them?" Dean asked tiredly, wondering why they had to be the ones to stop every hand of evil that came their way. It was like a hydra; every time they knocked something down, more and more and more appeared to face them.

"Well, strictly speaking, there's no clear way. But it says that their power comes from-"

"The rings," Kat finished from her position at the doorframe, her still wet hair tangling slightly around her pale face. Dean's eyes caught the bruises forming on her neck and arms and held, wondering why he felt anything at all at the sight of them. "And if you have all of them, you can open a gate to Hell, right?" she asked Sam, as if unsure of herself.

"Exactly, and that's our ticket to ride; shove Lucifer back in his box. Lilith's already dead, so no one will ever be able to raise him again," Sam said with a slight grin. Maybe they could win this. Maybe they would see the end through and survive, he and his brother. Just the thought made a smile rise to his face and he couldn't be rid of it.

"I'll give Ash a call, have him lookin' out for signs of them," Kat said mostly to herself as she walked past them and snatched her phone. Dean nodded and waited to voice the question that was burning in his mind. He wanted to hope, wanted to have something to shoot for, but he had to be sure it would work. There couldn't be any hang-ups, or he might lose Sammy. He wouldn't risk his brother or the world on the off-chance this would work.

"Darlin'?" Ash's voice sounded down the line, hope clear in the tone of it. Kat couldn't hold back a slight smile as she relayed their information quickly. She could hear the scratching of a pen on paper on the other side as he wrote everything down. "It'll take me….85 hours with everythin' that needs figurin'," Ash said after a moment of calculations.

"That's fine, we'll see if we can jump another hunt while we're at it, find somethin' to fill the spaces with," Kat said casually, as if she wasn't discussing putting her life on the line again. Ash sighed, figuring she wouldn't give up hunting just because her mission was complete.

"Darlin'?" he asked again, voice sounding subdued. "Did you get him?"

"Yeah Ash, we got him," she said softly, careful to make it 'we' because somehow she was sure she couldn't have done it without the boys. She would have been back in the Hell she'd always known with no way out and no one to help her. She shivered slightly and thought that Bobby might have a point about sticking with a team.

She and Ash said their goodbyes and she hung up, tossing the phone on the unmade bed carelessly and taking the coffee Sam offered her.

"Hate to break up this pre-celebration," Dean started gruffly, wishing he could think of a better way to phrase it and having none. "But how exactly are we going to open the Hell Mouth?"  
>"Anything I've read says something about a phrase in Latin, I think, but never outlines what," Kat said with a shrug, taking a long draw of her black coffee like it was her life blood.<p>

"Same, but we can research that while we get the rings," Sam said logically. "And we don't even know if we can do that. Why don't we take it one step at a time?"

"Whatever you say, Sammy," Dean said after a moment of silence, shrugging as though it meant nothing. He didn't want to bring his brother down, eradicate this new-old Sammy, the one he'd missed more than he'd ever mention. He wondered what had brought him back, and his eyes unwillingly slid to Kat. He stopped himself from thinking, a slight frown on his lips. "Well, we got time to kill between now and then, so what should we do?"

"Do you think," Kat started, cutting herself off suddenly. Her head ducked down, a blotchy blush rising to her pale cheeks that Dean could see through the curtain of her damp hair. "Do you think I could see my parents?" she asked softly, almost inaudibly.

It took Dean a moment to realize she meant visit their graves, see the stone markers that proclaimed her parents. He swallowed, wondering why anybody found closure in doing it and resolving that he couldn't take the opportunity away from her. He nodded dumbly.

"Know the town?" Sam asked, pulling out a map he'd use later in the car, directing Dean like the back-seat driver he was.

Kat paused, thinking back to days of flint on cement to learn her ABC's and bloodstained fingers reaching for an older sister. "Andrea said it was called Derry, Maine?" she made it sound like a question. "I think I heard Alistair mention it once too."

"We're close," Sam said after a moment. "About three hours away."

"Do you know their names?" Dean asked, green eyes riveted on her as her head ducked away again and the blush was more pronounced. He thought she was like Sammy like that, embarrassed to not know, never comfortable unless they were the smartest in the room.

"I don't know," she mumbled dejectedly, combat boot toeing the seventies carpeting like a small child might when told that drawing on the wall wasn't okay. Sam adopted the puppy eyes and sent her a reassuring look.

"Don't worry, we pose as FBI all the time, it'll be easy to get the information you need out of the locals," he said truthfully, the smile making him look so much younger.

"Let's head out, we're burnin' daylight," Dean said with a clap of his hands, standing slowly with a crack of bones in his spine.

"Hey Dean?" Kat started, her eyes full of something that made Dean stop and look at her. He was not sure what he was expecting her to say, but a thousand things ran through his mind. About nine-hundred of which ended with a passionate kiss against the door frame. "Can I drive?"

He deflated, and his mind rushed to her doing eighty on his poor baby. He took in her wide blue eyes and the pleading in them. They were sucking him under to a dark, dark world where she drove his car and shot his guns and called the shots. "No." He wasn't ready for that nightmare.


	25. Chapter 25

Kat didn't really think he'd say yes, but everything around her was surreal, nothing felt grounded or constant, only a distant mirage to her eyes. She didn't really think he'd let her get behind the wheel of his car, his home, let her take control like that. But she couldn't help but try. She couldn't help but test the waters around them; to be sure nothing had really changed since the night before. She couldn't help the small smile that rose to her lips at the thought. They were Winchesters. She should have known that everything would be buried deep and forgotten about because that was the way they worked. They wouldn't stare at her like she was glass, breakable and fragile, and they wouldn't suddenly start being conscious of her feelings. She would keep being a hunter and they would keep being brothers.

They left the motel room within the hour, leaving behind the remains of salty tears and breaking confessions, slightly rumpled blankets the only indication they'd been there at all. Kat rested comfortably in the back seat while Sam stared out the window in the front, a frown on his lips. Dean had almost said yes, _again. _The thought seemed wrong to the younger brother, who was sure that the unhealthy connection Dean had to his car would never break, would never be lessened. It was one of the things Sam didn't want to change, out of everything in their chaotic life. It was his constant; Dean was his constant.

He could only be glad when Kat went quietly, slipping into the back seat without a fight and rifling with her sketch book again, pale fingers gliding across a page. His eyes shifted back to the window and he wondered if they would stay in this suffocating silence for the rest of the day, drowning in it until the grief hit Kat when they moved into Derry. He didn't want that weighing on all their chests, the inevitable waiting for a breakdown that might not even come.

"So what was your first hunt?" Dean asked suddenly, thankfully breaking the mounting tension Sam was sure he wasn't imagining. He could see Kat grow thoughtful in the back, her hand stilling across paper. Her head tilted to the side and Sam wondered if she would say Alistair, since it was the first thing she went after. Like Azazel was their first.

"Bobby took me to burn a ghost when I was seventeen," Kat said slowly, as if tasting the words on her tongue and she was saying something important. "There were these…these little kids hiding in the back room, trying to get away from the ghost of their mom. I ended up getting them out. They were…so grateful, so happy." she spoke softly, memories flooding through her blue eyes until they looked distant. "I think that was when I decided to do this for the rest of my life. It was...some kindafeeling."

Dean was nodding along, like she was preaching something he believed in. Sam flicked his eyes between them thoughtfully and wondered if his brother had been through something similar. If he'd saved a child that had said 'thank you' and had seen something good come from hunting. Something Sam had only seen rarely and often turned away from.

"I was younger, lot younger," Dean started, even though she didn't ask him. Sam's eyebrows knitted together in confusion, trying to recall a time his older brother had ventured information, had given it without asking, letting someone else into the mystery that was his head. Sam couldn't help but shift, leaning slightly towards him almost protectively, as if the added motion would give his older brother comfort, assurance enough to tell his story. "Dad…he'd been on a hunt…brought it back to the motel by accident."

Dean cleared his throat roughly, shaking his head with a slight smirk on his face, eyes flitting between the road and the rearview. If he'd been expecting judgment, he didn't find it, only the concerned blue eyes of another hunter, something like protectiveness swirling in with the clear color.

"It was a succubus. Had Dad wrapped around her ugly ass finger," Dean said with an almost sad smirk for another piece of his childhood ripped away from him, wretched from too-pink fingers not yet hardened by calluses and years of gripping a gun. "I got no clue what it looked like to Dad, never did say…but to me it wasn't cute. No J-Lo, I'll tell you that. Maybe a little bit of Paris," he added as if an afterthought, a grimace coloring his features for a fleeting moment. "I was too young to see anything other than what it was…hadn't grown into the ladies' man phase yet. Sammy was dead to the world, still a baby then," Dean said softer, as if the fact was something to be held higher than anything else he'd said. He shook himself, seeming to wake from a dream, something not lost on his younger brother, and Sam adopted a soft look, a smile around the edges of a sorrowful gratefulness. "Managed to gank her with a silver bullet without wakin' him up. Dad was a bit shell shocked, though," he admitted with a light smile, masking the pain with humor, trying to ignore the gnawing discomfort, the hidden wish to be normal. To have slept through it like Sam had. To have grown up far away and safe.

"How long did you hold that over John?" Kat asked suddenly, snapping him back from his reverie with those same soft eyes, eyes that seemed to see into him and knew which way to push. Dean let his smile grow into a grin, cocky attitude nearly becoming arrogance.

"Till the day he went out." It was easier, now, to talk about his father. Easier now that they had other tragedies to focus on, and his everlasting grief wasn't always on his mind. It was easier to joke about his old man, to try and see him as less than the idealistic warrior Dean had painted him to be. Easier, too, to talk about his death. Not the way Dean had taken to thinking of it, a bright fire being washed away by rivers of darkness and suffocated by the evil it had been destined to fight, but as another man, another soldier of many wars, passed on beyond a veil.

He flicked his eyes to the rearview again, unconsciously hoping to meet soft blue eyes again, eyes that understood what it meant to grow up too quickly, to pretend for the sake of a sibling, to have become a warrior before they were in grade school. But her eyes were averted to the window, fixed on a wooden, homely sign fast approaching. They were in Derry.

Both boys in the front seat swallowed, almost expecting her to break, to cry out in an expression of grief they could understand. She stayed silent, watching the trees blur into the shape of a town, slightly rundown buildings imprinting in her vision in the Land That Time Forgot. It reminded her of a trip down Route 66, deteriorating homes and businesses, lost in decades long past. Kat shifted in her seat, hands wringing together, the sharp metallic sound of rings clicking together.

When the car finally pulled to the stop, she wondered if she had aged years, decades. Finding the precinct had only taken minutes but it felt like lifetimes; lifetimes spent wondering what her life would have been like if nothing had happened. She would have gone to the little school on the edge of town, attended the large church downtown, smiled at boys who smiled back, maybe even fallen in love. She would have fought with her parents when she got older, only known pain when it was a scraped knee on the concrete outside of school. The thoughts, fuzzy in her head, swirled together until they drowned out all others, 'what ifs' and memories faded like the edges of sepia photos. She was trying to recall the full picture, trying to remember the color of her mother's eyes, the shade of her father's hair, their heights, builds. It felt like trying to remember a dream.

The precinct was small, shabby, and reminded her of every other county jail she'd ever seen on hunts. But to the woman in the back seat of the '67 Impala it was a monolith of grief and fear, waiting to sling itself onto her waiting soul. She wondered if she would be strong enough to face it. She could feel Dean and Sam waiting for her to get out of the car, probably intent on some deep conversation reserved for Winchester ears only, but she felt frozen to the seat, molded into the leather.

"You, uh, you gonna move?" Dean asked roughly, tact seeming to fly out of his brain, but he liked to think it didn't matter. He didn't need to ask if she needed help, needed a shoulder, needed him to walk in with her. He knew enough about her to see himself in the way she set her shoulders, squared her jaw and glared at him through the rearview.

"Tryin'," she answered, bitter honesty clear in her voice and Dean had expected a sharp 'yes' and for her to leave. He wasn't used to people deviating from the two paths he'd drawn out for how to help the grieving. Either they were like Sam, open-hearted and free with feelings, therapeutic crying to ease the soul, or they were like his father. Straight backed and hard eyes and never showing weakness because it meant someone could hurt you. This was a foreign mix between the two and he felt like he was learning a new language.

"Do or do not, there is no 'try'," Dean spouted off after a moment, watching her with calculating eyes, trying to gauge a reaction from her as he spoke. He couldn't hold back a proud grin when her head cocked to the side and a shaky smirk rose to her lips.

"Did you just quote Yoda at me?" she asked, an element of pleasure in her eyes that he was still unaccustomed to.

"The fact that you have to ask at all makes me doubt you are a Star Wars fan," Dean rebuked quickly, grin refusing to die as he made progress. He caught Sam's small smile coupled with the almost patronizing shake of his head that told him his little brother knew his shtick, knew the plan, and knew it was working.

"It was just your terrible acting," Kat quipped back, the blue of her eyes looking more alive, mirroring the sky on a clear day; open. She rolled her shoulders then, as if to be sure her body could still separate from the back of the Impala, and moved towards the door. Dean's smile looked almost proud as the door opened and shut firmly, with her now standing on the outside, cool wind blowing back her hair.

"I'm an A-lister and you know it!" Dean shouted before she left earshot, a chuckle rising in his chest and sometimes he wondered how he managed to laugh through rivers of guilt and grief and fear. How he managed to put deep emotions and deep conversations on the back burner. He caught Sam's almost disapproving glance and shrugged his shoulders dramatically. "What?" he asked as if clueless.

"That was the best you could come up with?" Sam asked in near exasperation. Dean would have believed him too, if not for the tinges of humor around his eyes, now a mixture of green and blue. The older man pretended to look offended, a hand to his chest as if pained.

"Worked, didn't it?" Dean answered roughly, looking away and praying Sam would drop it.

"Yeah, but it's not like you," Sam responded, genuine confusion and curiosity in his voice and Dean cringed, sighing in exasperation.

"Don't you think she's been through enough the past few days?" Dean asked rhetorically, because anyone could see she had. It didn't matter that Dean had been the one to do something about it, to try and make her smile, just the slightest.

"Yeah, but you? Man, I haven't seen you like this since-" he paused, swallowing roughly and Dean knew what would come next. His brother had never gotten over it like Dean had never gotten over their mother. Sam had never come to terms with the loss of another woman pinned to the ceiling and he was right, Dean had been like that then. The older brother had been trying for a smile and prank war and startled laugh and a loud badly-sung chorus to a song they both knew by heart. "Since Jessica."

"Sometimes people need a push," Dean said quietly. It felt to Sam like his brother was reaching out of the silence, struggling against the pull of the soft sounds of breathing, the hum of cars a few deserted streets over. "You'd be surprised how easy it is to see what _kind _people need, once you've been looking for a while."

Sam frowned, remembering one of many titles his brother carried; Guardian. Dean would only ever be on the outside looking in and both of them knew it. He would never mingle with the world like Sam could, never immerse himself in another life and live it like he belonged there. He was born to be a hunter, and nothing could change it.

"I wish things were different," Sam muttered, a hand running through his hair and eyes on his lap. He could feel his brother's answering sigh weighing heavily in the air between them, and he felt his shoulders sagging under the weight of the world. Sam wondered how Dean could handle it.

"Sometimes we just gotta play the hand we're dealt," Dean said wisely, his voice more subdued and calm than Sam had heard in what felt like forever. He wondered when his older brother had become so wise, such an old soul harbored in a young man's body. He smirked at the thought, because his brother had always been that way, it was just that the mask of a playboy was slipping, showing the depth beneath those bottomless green eyes.

"Don't you gotta know when it's time to fold?" Sam asked, turning his head to meet his brother's eyes and there was bleak understanding reflected back at him, raw tinges of burnt-out humor on the edges of his lips.

"You know the rules, Sammy boy," Dean said with an attempt at a grin. "Only losers fold."

Kat was walking back outside before Sam could respond, probably with a not-so-subtle jab at his father's rules and regulations. Both hunters turned to watch her walk out, clutching a relatively small manila envelope between pale fingers, head down and eyes on her shoes, each step feeling like miles. Every moment another lifetime wasted on the half-forgotten memories of a past she could never relive.

She opened the car door, swallowing around her grief as she slid into her seat, eyes averted. Dean didn't mention how he caught the red in her eyes, how he saw her hands shaking, how her lower lip trembled. Dean didn't say anything at all for several minutes, wouldn't even start the car as she collected herself and he stared out the dash like there was something interesting in the way the wind blew through the trees. Sam followed suit, gauging his own movements on his brother's.

"It's a…um…it's a cemetery on the north side of town," she said finally, glancing up quickly to the rearview and catching green eyes. Dean nodded and started the car, a throaty hum to drown out her thoughts as quivering fingers moved to open the envelope. "Demons burned down my house," she said softly, talking more to herself than anyone. "Nothing was saved. This was all they found in a safety deposit box."

She opened it slowly, like she was afraid a bomb might go off and blow her back to her own Hell. Neither brother spoke, only waited. They waited because she needed it; she needed the silence and the understanding. Her fingers trembled as they pulled out the contents, breath catching as she let her eyes trace over them.

"To whom it may concern," she read aloud softly, sounding so much younger than she was, raw and vulnerable and another piece of her armor was left in the rearview mirror, fading away. "I can only hope that I am reading this with you, sitting next to you as I tell you my story, but I can't assume that I am still around. I know that there are demons after me, they have been since Kathy and Jamie were born, and I know why. I can't bring myself to write it down, because this is my fault. I made a mistake, a fatal mistake, and because of it I know my children are going to suffer. I can only hope that I moved fast enough, that I protected us all the way He advised. In the event that they found you, that they hurt you, I can only tell you that I am so sorry, and that I hope you understand. I pray our little family managed to stay well, managed to evade the evils and darkness of the world I'd sworn I would never reveal to my children, or my husband. I pray that Kathy, if you are the one reading this, can forgive me, for what I have unknowingly cast upon you. I hope you can forgive my weakness and I hope, if I am still alive, that you can still look at me with the same adoring blue eyes I am seeing as I write this. Your father's beautiful eyes." Kat paused in her reading, her voice sounding wet and distant as she tried to keep back the tears welling in her eyes.

"None of you can ever understand the extent of how much I love you, how much I wish I had not set these events into motion. Please, please God, forgive me."

She ran a hand through her hair, and a part of her felt like tearing at it, like she needed something to distract herself from the clawing, raw emotion in her chest. She needed the pain to keep her from her own thoughts, her own fears and grief eating away at her. She glanced up and paused, breathing harsh and labored, eyes riveted on a calm pair of green-shot-gold staring back at her.

She nodded, to what she didn't know, and looked back down, staring down at her mother's signature with soft eyes. "Signed Hannah DeLaroux. Hey guys, I guess I'm French," she whispered in a sad attempt at humor. Sam cracked a smile, looking to the backseat with an encouraging look, something a brother might give a younger sibling. Something comforting and understanding all at once, like he'd been through what she had. Maybe he had, she reasoned.

"Not too much else in here," she continued, speaking with an empty voice, something Dean could recognize as a way to avoid the tears, the onslaught of emotion she would have to face up to soon. She was trying to stave it off, push it back inside her chest like she could control it. He could only wonder when the dam would break and if he could find it in himself to pick up the pieces. If he could set aside his own pride and instincts long enough to build her again, make her strong.

Kat sighed, taking slow calming breaths as if they could make her unbreakable. There was still more in the envelope, more to swallow down like a dry pill, stuck in her throat with no relief and she was choking. But there was an urgency to go on, as if the slips of paper her mother left her would be enough to give her closure, to end the questions swirling through her mind.

"There is…is a necklace at the bottom, and another piece of paper," she mumbled, fingers catching a gold chain and pulling it out into the midday light. Gold wings hung on the end, and for an insane moment, Kat wondered if her mother knew about the ones on her back, the ones branded into her skin for eternity. But that wasn't possible. "They're beautiful," she whispered, so low Dean almost didn't hear her. But he did and the wonder in her voice made the ghost of a smile rise to his lips.

She slipped the necklace over her head and held the charms tightly in her hand, as if the wings could keep her grounded. Somehow, as Dean gripped the wheel of his car, he could relate. Could relate to the need for a tether, for a link to a parent. For something to keep the memories alive because you were afraid you would forget if you didn't have one. Afraid that every stolen moment you managed to keep hidden in the back of your mind would fade away and be lost among the many roads of their pasts. Just another half-seen road sign on an interstate he didn't remember the number of.

"Nothing from your dad?" Sam asked, confusion coloring his voice, turning in his seat to look at her. They were nearing the cemetery, coming up on the rows and rows of stone, names engraved along with the short phrases meant to sum up their entire lives.

"No, there's a picture," she corrected softly, catching only the words on the back of the smaller piece of paper. "Your Dad will always be with us, just like I'll always be with you. He's our angel," she read aloud before flipping the photo over.

Her hand went slack, the picture fluttering from numb fingers like fall leaves caught in the wind. Her eyes flicked to the rearview, panic swimming in the blue and they reminded Dean of the terror-stricken eyes of the victims he helped save.

Kat's heart was pumping overtime, thundering in her ears and she could feel it in every part of her body. She wondered if this was how a person felt before they had a heart attack, life passing before her eyes and it felt like watching a movie. A fantasy cinematic experience, where nothing was what it seemed. And it seemed to her that her mother was lying, that she was crazy. That something had gone wrong in her mind to make her believe that lie imprinted on the paper.

Because_ that_ man wasn't her father. He wasn't the kind man with fluttering blonde hair and dark eyes that could swallow her whole, he wasn't the one that played with Jamie for hours on end, adoring his only son. He wasn't the man that bade her goodnight in the soft glow of evening, the man that comforted her amidst early childhood nightmares. He wasn't the one who broke apart her and Jamie's frequent fights in the yard, wrestling each other in a tangle of pale limbs and grass stains. This wasn't the father she'd yearned for attention from, the one who liked Jamie more than her and tried to hide it. He wasn't the one who rarely held her, too busy with her brother. The one who stared at her like she was something foreign, something he hadn't even noticed before that moment.

She gasped for breath, realizing she'd been holding it, and leaned down, fingers trembling as she reached for the picture again. Black, tangling hair came into view, reaching his chin and looking windswept, like he'd been driving with the windows down. He was taller than her father would be, an arm stiffly wrapped around her mother, Hannah, with a contented look in his eyes, not quite smiling. Those eyes. Her eyes. Brilliant blue staring back at her, and she didn't know what to think. But his other arm was cradling her, little her when she was only about two, baby arms wrapped around his neck for support. He looked strong, and unaccustomed to the closeness of a child, staring down at her with absolute wonder as she stared back. Kat smiled as she studied her toddler self, doe-eyes blown wide with awe and adoration on the man in front of her. She would have thought he was glowing, the child's eyes were that interested. And he was looking back, not like she was some apathetic mouth to feed, but like she was a creature of the fey, a mermaid, a baby angel lacking a harp. He was looking at her like she was beautiful.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked, looking ready to pull over with a sharp turn of the wheel and come to her aid. They were about to make the final turn, about to reach the final resting places of Hannah and Marcus DeLaroux.

"T-that is not the man my mother married," she stuttered out, wishing she could say that it wasn't her father, wishing she could believe that. But she was overwhelmed with memory, sensation, each ticking second she could ever remember about the man that raised her. There was no connection; no link to him that made her want to insist he was her father, that half of what made her could be traced to him. It didn't feel that way, it felt distant, and maybe the printed man staring back at her really was her father.

"Who is it?" Sam asked, head tilting to the side as he turned again to watch her. He caught Dean's tense shoulders in the corner of his eye and wondered what his brother knew, what burden of knowledge he was struggling under this time.

"I-I think it's my father, my real father," Kat whispered, almost without thinking. Without focusing enough to catch herself and maybe she did believe it. It was easy to believe, easy to accept, when nothing about her life made sense and she was just lost in the swirling world of evil and pain and loss. She was just trying to break water, find enough room to breathe.

"What about Jamie?" Sam asked, watching her like he thought she might explode, might lose it, might throw away the hunter inside of her and become a grieving daughter, a broken victim. Become what logic said she should have been.

"I don't know, I just don't know," she whispered, head hanging. Hair fell into her eyes to shield her and she wondered how much pressure she could take before she broke. How much weight she could pile onto her shoulders and still stand up. She felt like falling, like crashing to the ground and staying down.

The car rolled to a stop, fields of stone before them, the last memories of fading pasts, families laid down together in eternal peace, lovers as close as they could get to the other. Names engraved and fading, weather grating them down until the body beneath the ground no longer possessed an identity. Dean opened his door, cool air caressing his skin, and he realized this was one of the few times he was in a cemetery under the sun, as the glare caught the paint of his car. He moved to the backseat, opening the door and leaning down until he met Kat's eyes. He thought they looked turned inward, like she was closing herself off from the rest of the world one second at a time.

"Stop that," he said strongly, bringing her back to the present and he hated that he sounded like his father. "Don't think about that now. Now you gotta get out of my car and go say goodbye to your parents, the people that raised you and loved you. You owe them that."

Dean's voice was calming, safe, something grounded to pull her back from the doubt and loneliness inside her head. She nodded automatically, shifting to get out of the car and she felt numb, impervious to the world around her. She wondered if she would even feel pain, then. She was tempted to pinch herself, to drag herself from this dream-turned-nightmare. But then she would wake up on Ash's couch with a bottle of half-empty whiskey, without the Winchesters, still reeling from whatever close call she'd had on her last hunt.

So she stood up as Dean moved, let her eyes roam over the rows upon rows of the dead and followed the directions the officer inside the precinct gave her. Dean and Sam stayed behind, both standing out of the car and in the sunlight, trying not to watch her too closely. Name after name came and left her vision and she wondered how many people came to visit them, came to stand in front of lost parents, friends, daughters, brothers.

Finally, her steps stilled, her eyes caught on two names sharing the same piece of stone. '_Hannah and Marcus DeLaroux, loving parents.' _She wondered if that was all they could be defined by, all that made up who they were and how they lived their lives. She was sure they were more than just loving parents. Her mother was an artist, from what she recalled; her father a businessman with a knack for cards. Their lives amounted to more than engraved words on a rock.

"I-I don't know what to say," she whispered, a hand rising unconsciously to wipe at her face, as if expecting salt water to have traced its way down her cheeks already. She didn't know how she wasn't crying, how she wasn't breaking. "But I forgive you, Mom. How could I not? I loved you, loved Dad too, even if nothing's really like it was, and I'll never really know you. You'll never see me grow up, and I'll never watch you grow old…Mom, you won't cry when I move out of the house, and Dad, you won't walk me down the aisle. But…I think it'll be okay," she drifted off in a whisper and took a deep breath.

The sun's constant burn was making her uncomfortable, and her neck hurt from looking down, as if staring at the headstone was the same as keeping eye contact. She didn't want to stay there, whereall she could think about was a past she could never live out the way she should have, a childhood lost. She didn't want to live on the 'what ifs' of something she could never have. She would never be normal, it was time she accepted it completely. Her eyes flicked up and caught the distant figure of the Impala, two tall hunters leaning against it, feigning casual as they waited for her. Waited so they could move on, to another adventure, another hunt, something she could dive into while still sure someone was there to watch her back. Someone to talk to, someone to lean on, because she didn't have to be alone. Not anymore.

"I _know _I'll be okay."


	26. Chapter 26

The walk back to the car was stumbling, halting, like a toddler taking its first steps. Kat's eyes were on the ground, though she found herself taking quick glances up, as if to be sure that the two men in front of her hadn't moved. They hadn't. Sam was clearly waiting for her; hazel eyes following her every move as if waiting for her to drop. She wondered if she would.

Her hands were shaking, steps unsteady, eyes burning but not quiet leaking. She felt on edge, as if one word would cause her to break and she would be left collapsing to her knees in the cemetery like every other grieving woman. But she was supposed to be a hunter. She was supposed to be strong.

Dean was leaning against his car, staring up at the sky like it held answers. Sunlight dappled his tan cheeks and made exotic patterns through the oak tree nearby on his skin. His face was turned slightly away from her, hands deep in his pockets and posture relaxed. Kat wanted him to look her way, to give any semblance of understanding or comfort as she slowly walked towards the car. But green eyes didn't meet blue until she'd managed to get herself under control, until her breathing was normal and she was only a few feet from them, her shoulders slowly releasing tension.

He looked at her then, his expression carrying a type of softness buried under uncertainty and hesitancy. He didn't know how to proceed, how to move forward without upsetting her precarious emotional balance. He didn't have to.

Sam made the first move, wrapping his arms around her small frame until her face was buried in his chest. She let go. Inch by inch, feelings were released from her body and she'd never really managed to control the swirling emotions in her chest. She felt wetness collecting in her eyes and spilling over, like a dam breaking. Her arms wound around his waist like he was a life preserver, like Sam was the only thing keeping her alive. He didn't speak, didn't whisper soft words as she cried into his chest like a child.

Her breathing was shallow, her heart beating too fast, her mind clouded with the grief that was suffocating her. All she could see was her mother's face, her father's brown eyes, Andrea, Jamie, Susie. What God decided that she had to lose them all? When other children lived happy and lost no one until they were old and grey, she was ripped from any semblance of normal and vaulted into the life of a warrior. What if she didn't want it?

She didn't have a choice anymore.

Dean ran a hand through his hair awkwardly and wondered what he should do, wondered what steps he should take down the twisting road that was Kat. He didn't have a map that could guide him. Sam was already giving her comfort, giving her something while he stood against his car and pretended to look back up at the sky. He could hear her crying softly, could tell she wanted to scream, wanted to empty her lungs out to convey her pain and frustration. But she held back, and he was grateful. Crying people made him uncomfortable, more so when he couldn't help them. When he only stood in the background while his little brother picked up the pieces.

"Come here," Sam said with an attempt at a smile, waving him closer with an almost teasing look. Kat's shuddering breaths had evened out and it seemed like she was slowing down, eyes drying as she collected herself. "Get in on this."

Dean sighed, pretending to be exasperated and unwilling as he dragged himself forward. He could see the beginnings of a grin forming on her lips at the action, shifting in the cage of Sam's arms to sling one arm around Dean's waist. She was crushed comfortably between the two of them, protection she could count on wrapped around her like they actually cared, and for a moment she allowed herself to believe it. She let herself believe that they cared about her beyond the obligation of hunter to hunter. She let herself think that they were close, they were friends, and they loved her like a part of their family. She let herself think she belonged.

She pulled away, hands rising to wipe at her eyes, smudging her eyeliner around the corners until it looked smoky. A low chuckle broke from her and she wondered if she was losing it, if she was finally going as insane as the rest of the world thought she was.

"So," she said brightly, sounding energized and awake for the first time in a long time. She was almost smiling, the edges of her mouth turned up just enough to give Dean hope that she was okay, that she wouldn't collapse in the car and curl in on herself and sob. "What do you say we kill some evil sonsofbitches and we raise a little hell?" she asked, a spark in her eyes that made Dean think she knew she was quoting him.

It was almost the same thing Dean had said not too long ago, back when it was just him and Sam against the world and Dean's number was dwindling fast, counting down like the doomsday clock. But now it was different, now it was an added member of their little team making a shift, a change in the way they operated. She was remolding the way they behaved around each other until they were joking again, like they hadn't since the end of the world, the rising of Lucifer, Dean dying, Sam dying, their father dying. Everything was changing, though everything around them was the same. The end of the world was still looming, raised like the pendulum over the pit and either way they were screwed. But they had another set of helping hands, a willing soldier, someone to share the burden with, and maybe that was enough.

Car doors slammed in a vacant cemetery on a sunny day, a throaty engine purring to life amongst the peace. The '67 Impala pulled away from the rows of polished rock and epithets, turning down a back road and picking up speed. The woman in the backseat tapped her fingers distractedly and pretended to lose herself in gazing out the window at the town, marveling at the way the buildings blurred together as Dean pressed on the gas.

"Is it wrong that I'm glad I didn't grow up here?" Kat asked suddenly, her eyes flicking to the front seat for only a moment, before returning to the window. Dean shook his head, green eyes casting out to the closed signs on every other building.

"It's anything but you," he commented as if he'd known her all her life, as if he could make such an assumption about her life. But she couldn't help but agree with him. They were surrounded by suburbia, the ideal American world, and it felt claustrophobic, tied down, like it was trying to keep her in. "You probably would've moved out first chance you got, gone to some college on the coast, lived a little."

Her eyes flicked to meet his in the rearview, surprise coloring the blue until it could be deemed its own shade. Sam was nodding along, like he agreed completely, tapping on his leg like he was counting the silent beats.

"What would I have majored in?" she asked before she could stop herself, head tilting to the side in honest curiosity. It was distracting, something she needed right now. She let herself be carried away by Dean's rough voice, the possibilities she might have had.

"You would've wanted art, your mom too, but your dad would have insisted on a business degree." Dean spoke as if he knew everything about her, knew every inch of her mind like his own and could draw up his findings on command. He spoke like she'd told him every faded memory she had.

"What about you?" she asked, drawing her knees to her chest and resting her cheek against them, eyes finding the window again. He swallowed, his gaze flicking to Sam, clearly waiting for the answer.

"When I was little, I wanted to be a fireman, y'know, help people," he muttered, gripping the wheel tighter until his knuckles went white. "But it probably would have played out the same way, drop out of high school, and work with dad. Mechanic, maybe. Nothing big."

"Why not?" she pressed, catching his eyes in the rearview and holding, refusing to let go until she got an answer. He shifted, trying to ignore the anxious way Sam was watching him, like he was waiting for a break, a splinter down his big brother's soul.

"Because I'm not built to be at the top, to get a thank you or a medal. I'm just there to help people get from one place to another. Most days, that's enough," Dean admitted after a stretch of silence, finally breaking the eye contact between them and focusing on the road as they exited Derry.

"And the days it's not?" She pushed, wondering how far she could go before he shut down. He found understanding in her eyes when he flicked his gaze back to the rearview. She felt the way he did, like there was glass between them and the rest of the world, and the most they could do was press their bodies against it and pretend they were being held, being protected.

"Jack's good at letting you forget there was a problem in the first place," he said with a knowing glance, remembering the whiskey bottles and beer cans that littered her floor at three in the morning. They knew the sting of alcohol as a blessing, the comforting warmth better than a lover's touch.

"You're both ridiculous," Sam muttered, arms folding and chin jutting out. "You'd live perfectly happy lives, you'd be happy. We wouldn't be worrying about the world ending, or who's gonna be hurt next. We wouldn't have that weight on our shoulders," he trailed off, hazel eyes finding his brother's with the pleading look Dean could never quite get used to.

"I like my life," Kat spoke up, and the genuine truth in her eyes made both brothers sit up straighter with surprise."It's not a fairytale, but it's not bad. I travel wherever I want, I don't have to work for a living, nine to five confined in a cubicle. I help people, I work with my hands, I meet new people every day, and I don't even have to pay for where I rest my head. Doesn't sound half bad to me."

"At least until the world decided to end," Dean tacked on, the finality in his voice taking her back to reality and she remembered that the novel had to have an end. It didn't feel like it was ending, nothing did. But it must've been weighing harder on the Winchester boys, the ones destined to stop it, the ones that really held the world. Just two boys from Kansas.

She wondered if people would preach their words, their practices. She wouldn't have guessed they would deserve their own gospel. Christianity would change, she thought with a wry grin, when their savior was Dean Winchester. When their new Messiah drank until the world blurred around the edges, wore red on his hands in order to deliver them from evil. He wasn't the white-robed bearded man that provided the answers. He was rough on more than just the edges, hands accustomed to the grip of a gun, quick to judge when he saw in black and white. He wasn't the savior the people would want.

She trusted him, though. She trusted both of them, a thought so foreign to her it was frightening. She wasn't built to trust. She'd been crafted by dark hands to shy away from hope, from any chance of light shattering through the night she lived in. She'd been raised to fear. All the more reason to let herself trust these two hunters trying to save the world. If anyone could keep her safe, it would be them.

"Fuck."

The curse drew her from her thoughts violently as she caught on to the cell phone in Dean's hand, white screen emblazing a message she couldn't quite read from her position. He shoved the phone at Sam, quickly retaking the wheel in a white-knuckle grip and jerking it swiftly with expert hands. The car made a jarring U-turn, sending Kat sliding across the backseat and slamming into the opposite door. She hurriedly grabbed at her seatbelt, snapping it in with a deafening click as she glared openly at Dean. He sent a glance of apology, before turning again towards a major intersection that would take them towards Kansas. She realized hours had passed, it was already dark, past midnight.

"Damn it," Sam muttered, a hand swiping through his hair. "Doesn't he have an archangel for times like this?"

"Apparently not since we broke from the Grand Plan," Dean muttered, turning the vehicle with deft twitches until they were on the proper route.

"What's going on?" Kat asked, wondering if she should be panicking. The boys clearly were, and she felt the Impala pick up speed and wondered what they would do if they were pulled over. They must be doing ninety now, trees and scenery blurring so quickly it was just a mass of green to her eyes.

"Leave it to Chuck to get himself in another 'life or death' situation," Dean grunted, speaking only to his brother. They were in their element, living like they always did when it was just the two of them, feeding off of each other's energy. She was taking up space.

"Who's Chuck?" she asked, her voice gaining volume, trying to be heard over the frantic energy between the two hunters in the front seat. Crackling between them, it could almost be seen; it was addicting to watch them work, but she had to be included.

"I hope he's in more than that disgusting bath robe he was in last time," Sam commenting, making a face as he examined the text and the address. "Turn off here, we'll make it by morning if we punch it."

"Hey!" she nearly shouted, leaning forward until her upper-body was between the two of them. "What the hell is going on?" She felt like a hunter again, all strength and crass words. Soft voices were gone, trembling lip eradicated. In its place was the woman the Winchesters had initially met.

"Chuck's a prophet," Sam said,rubbing the back of his neck. "He, um, focuses on our lives."

"Makes a living on selling out our story, you mean," Dean muttered, watching the speedometer climb as Baby sped down the freeway.

"Well, he sent us a text-"

"Screwed his pooch. Again," Dean muttered. Kat wondered if that was some sort of abstract language only he and Sam spoke, because his little brother seemed to know what he meant. She guessed the prophet was in trouble, and this wasn't the first time.

"Life or death?" she asked, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice, the pure adrenaline that always came with a new hunt.

"Leaning towards death," Dean said bitterly, fighting to keep his eyes open. He reached down, flicking the stereo on and filling the car with the blasting chords of AC/DC, the music a substitute of coffee and conversation. They couldn't stop until they got there; it would be hours until they did.

Kat settled back into the seat, refusing to unbuckle her seatbelt after the display of amateur racing. She preferred not to have brain damage, thank you. Her fingers tapped a beat on her thighs, distracting herself from the pent-up energy in her gut, swirling around in circles until it tried to break out. She wanted a hunt, wanted something to focus on, something to distract her from the grief and the pain and the memories of the past. She wanted to be like her old self, pent up and walled in around layers of armor too thick to penetrate. But the Winchesters had.

Maybe it was timing, they entered her life at the perfect time to watch her bleed and crumble. They wormed their way into her consciousness, something she could categorize as _safe. _Nothing was supposed to be safe, but they changed the rules. They changed everything and she was smiling more, accepting touch, sleeping with Dean beside her, looking out for more than just herself, caring about their opinions. Things were changing and it was confusing, muddling her thoughts until they were cyclical, always bringing her back to the same revelation: the Winchesters were different. Something about them made it okay, made everything okay.

She knew it was late, hours ticking by like seconds but she didn't feel the strain. Too many peaceful nights spent pressed against Dean to make her want to sleep now. She was awake, _alive. _Waiting for the pale light of dawn to break past the horizon and bathe them in the sun. Another day they'd made it through. Another day the earth still turned.

Another hunt.

Kat needed the heart-pounding adrenaline that accompanied a hunt, the sharp-sight that came with pain, with the need to stay alive. The clarity that came with the moments between life and death and saving. She wanted that high again.

She wasn't lying when she said she liked her life. She loved it. Loved the way she felt when she saved someone, when she pulled a person from the depths of their own fears, helped them claw their way into the sunrise. Loved the power she held in her chest when she killed the monster, got the bad guy, burned the bones. Loved the whiskey-drenched aftermath, the self-congratulatory celebration of one. Or, this time, of three. She wondered if they went out for drinks after a hunt, if they got laid, split up for a few moments, or came together. Would they alter their system for her?

"Try to get some rest, I'll pull over in a few hours to switch with Sam. We need to be half alive if we're gonna put up with Chuck," Dean said to her, eyes catching the rearview like it substituted for real eye contact. She nodded dumbly, leaning down to grab her sketchbook and essentially ignoring him in favor of a graphite pencil and another sketch of his eyes. She felt like she could never get them right, that depthless shade of overlapping greens.

Maybe it was the expression, that mixture of feigning calm and hidden exhaustion, pushed away until only Sam could see it clearly because he knew Dean the best. She was beginning to catch hints of it, fleeting expressions of bone-deep weariness that came with too many hunts too close together. He needed sleep. She needed a kill.

And Sam, Sam needed a break from the pressure. Dean didn't completely trust him, the world was ending, and now they had a tag along, another person to drag down with them. And now Chuck needed their help.

The younger brother sighed, leaning against the passenger's window and let it support his weight. He would be allotted two hours of sleep before Dean would pull over, finally admitting that he was about to die of exhaustion. Sam would drive until they passed into the county and Dean would take over again, if only so that when they arrived, it would seem as though Dean never stopped driving. To a certain extent, it would be true, since Dean wouldn't really find sleep, eyes moving restlessly beneath his lids. Kat, he had no idea what she would do, but right now she was drawing. She should be sleeping.

Maybe the world was starting to weigh on her too. He knew it was starting to hurt his shoulders, this fear that one day, Dean would decide it had been enough, that he'd taken enough from his younger brother. Because Sam had made the wrong choices, and Dean was getting tired of cleaning up the mess. He wondered how he could show he was better now, he was willing to help fix things. He wondered how he could come out and say it when they had a new body in the back seat to be hesitant around. But Dean was spilling more than he should and neither of them knew why. She was easy to talk to, and that was dangerous.

He liked her, though, he thought they both did. But he didn't want to drag her into his life, this life where she would undoubtedly end up dead, dying in their arms because they couldn't protect her. Not from the dark storm of feathers and black eyes swirling around them. Angels and Demons alike, converging on _them_, the dying breed of hunters left in a rag-tag group of humans. Humans against the Devil, against layers of evil only Dean and Kat really understood, but no one wanted to face. The world was going to split down the middle, and when it did, it would be their faults.

Things could only get better from here, right?

Maybe this next hunt would be lighter, nothing that would hold the fate of the world, just enough to keep them engaged, distract them from the rest of everything. Just for a few moments. For just long enough to take a deep breath and handle something normal, easy, as routine as the hunts before the angels. Sam wished this hunt wouldn't be complicated, that they could go in, save the prophet and get out. No Lucifer, no angels, no demons, no breaking of the fourth wall. Just a mission to help an alcoholic prophet out of a life or death situation. You know; Tuesday.


	27. Chapter 27

The '67 Impala was lost amongst copies of itself, black paint shining in a midmorning sun, peacefully, not like the _true _Impala, whose throaty hum mirrored the burning in its driver's chest. Car doors slammed, a loud reverberating thunderclap of sound meant to communicate the hunters' urgency, a trembling, rippling insistence to get to the problem, to fix it. The hunters stood as quickly as they could, muscles straining from too many hours cramped up and stretched thin, bones popping with weary tension. Hearts pounded, out of sync and all over the place, a humming tautness in their chests that made them rush, run, jean-clad legs pushed to the limit as they drew weapons.

Dean was in front, Sam a mere step behind him as long legs carried him beyond the limits of a normal man. Kat was running just after, fingers gripping the hilt of a knife with bruising force, eyes scanning the sea of old muscle cars with trepidation, eagerness swimming in her blood as it pounded in her ears, the rush of a hunt rising, clutching around her heart like a vice.

The parking lot they were in was packed with copies of the Impala, next to no variation, but they didn't have time to ponder over them. There was urgency that could only come with the grip of a hunt, something coursing through their bodies like fire ripping through a forest. The hotel was in their sights, the address Dean had been texted the night before, a slightly run-down, old looking inn. It reminded Kat of a hunt within a bed and breakfast, the suffocating cramped hallways, each room stuffed with as much 'homey-ness' as possible. Creepy innkeeper with a smile a bit too wide and a disposition a little too sweet. She wasn't surprised when she turned out to be killing her guests for their life spans.

Hopefully this would be that easy, go in, fix the problem, get out.

Then they could move on to the next hurtle, focus on the End rising too quickly. If they were going to fight the tide of angels and demons, they needed to be ready. Side trips wouldn't help them save the other seven billion people unknowingly depending on them.

She mentally shook herself, focusing on the problem at hand as a small man came into view. He looked terrified, his small, slight body frantically pacing as he ran his hands through his tangled brown hair and muttered under his breath. He reminded Kat of a paranoid schizophrenic off his medication, nothing like the crafted image of a holy prophet she'd created in her mind, a strong man who could take the onslaught of heavenly film injected into his brain. She understood the brothers' frustration. He looked frightened of his own shadow. She wondered how he didn't collapse under the weight of his visions, and whether they were painful, if that piece of another world forcefully pushed into his brain caused a reaction somewhere inside his body, if the pain receptors flared and he hurt. She wondered if he drank the pain away or used something darker, and that was why he looked so jittery, as if he was in withdrawal.

They were still running, and she was mildly surprised her legs were still pumping on, despite her deep musings, and had reached him by that time, his face still turned away like he was expecting something to fall from the sky and strike him dead. When Dean's hand fell to his shoulder, Kat imagined him jumping out of his skin like some badly-drawn cartoon character, screaming some sort of a catchphrase similar to Velma shouting 'Jeepers!' at high volume when being frightened. She could almost see Chuck rooting around on the floor looking for his glasses.

Sometimes she thought she should _read _instead of learning about the world through cartoons and cult-classic movies. Pop culture might make her seem more real, more immersed in the ways of the world, but she _wanted_ to be smart.

"Chuck!" Sam shouted, his voice sounding deeper and ripping her from thoughts she shouldn't be ruminating on. It was time to work. "There you are, man."

"Guys?" Chuck asked, turning to face them. Kat almost snorted. His voice was obnoxiously high, like he'd been huffing helium and raw nerves. Anxiety was written on his face, but he'd yet to really face her direction yet, making an assessment almost useless.

"What's goin' on?" Dean asked, urgency coloring his tone, stopping completely in front of the much shorter man.

"Uh, nothing, man," Chuck said, staring up at Dean as if the man might hit him. "Just y'know…hangin- hey what are you guys doing here?" he asked suddenly changing topic at a rate almost jarring to Kat. He'd yet to notice her. She was shadowed by Sam and Dean's broad shoulders, fingering the hem of her shirt awkwardly, wondering if there was something she should be doing.

She inched around the other side of Dean, trying to make herself known.

"You told us to come," Dean said, refusing to make the statement a question because he'd dragged himself away from a nice, dingy motel room and good night's rest to show up in bum-fuck wherever they were. His eyes flicked to the sign above the scrawny man's head. Pineview Hotel. That sounded eight types of classy and none of them his. He preferred ten-dollar-a-night stays, thank you.

"N-No, I didn't," Chuck nearly whispered, his head jerking backwards as if afraid Dean would clock him. Normally that would make Dean smile, since the nervous prophet managed to get under his skin, but now it just annoyed him.

"Yeah, you did. You texted us," Sam said, his voice bordering on pissed off and the sunlight was starting to hurt his eyes and he really didn't get enough sleep. His eyes flicked to Kat, sure she hadn't slept at all, but she was showing no sign of wear. "This address? Life or death situation? Any of this ringin' a bell?"

"N-No, I didn't send you a text," Chuck said blankly, honest-to-God bewilderment in his eyes as he struggled to understand the situation around him. His blue eyes flicked to Kat for a millisecond, just long enough to send him mentally on his ass. "You're Kat," he announced, as if she'd just appeared out of thin air at that moment.

"Really? I was unaware," she answered sarcastically on reflex, unnerved by whatever it was she saw in his eyes. She didn't like it. There was no way to describe the rolling mass of power and control behind the blue haze of barely-sober eyes. She nearly took a step back, praying silently that he would stop looking at her.

He did. She breathed a sigh of relief as Dean drew the attention away from her.

"We drove all night!" he nearly shouted, dark circles seeming to grow in prominence under his eyes until they were sucking him under, whispering words of a long night in bed, silken sheets and a warm body next to him, infinite pillows and magic fingers. He didn't care who was next to him, so long as his side was warm and his mind found its way into rest.

"I-I'm sorry, I just don't understand…" Chuck drifted off, clarity rushing into his eyes and Kat almost wished she could look away. It was enthralling, like different layers of the sky bending over each other until they were collected in a never-ending mass of energy and space and time. His eyes were limitless, and it frightened her. She wondered if this was what prophets looked like. If that vast expanse in their eyes was related to their heavenly knowledge and connection. She doubted it, but the explanation would do for now. "Oh no…" he muttered, rubbing a hand over his bearded chin.

"What?" Dean questioned tersely, eyes hard in that 'yes I will hit you' kind of way until Chuck was taking small steps backwards. Any semblance of peace was shattered by the ear-piercing scream that reached their ears exactly two point five seconds later.

"_Sam? You made it!" _a gleeful voice screamed out, and it reminded Kat of a small thirteen-year-old girl reacting to a pop star. She turned, reaching for her gun on instinct and realizing it was just a person a second later. The girl rushing towards them was short, thin, and pale, sporting a sweater vest, brown skirt, knee high socks, a headband, and braces. The crazed look in her eyes made Kat take a skillful step back, putting Sam's body in between her and the newcomer.

"Oh," Sam muttered, surprise coloring his tone with a distinctly false edge, and Kat wondered how both of them ever managed to lie their way past anyone. "Becky, right?" he asked, sounding like he was praying he had the wrong answer.

"Oh, you remember me," Becky said, slipping into her own estimation of a sultry tone, her eyes darkening with something that made Kat embarrassed for her. Dean rolled his eyes and sighed, already looking thoroughly exasperated and beat. All he really wanted was a shower and a nap, and he would rather have a bullet in the head than stand here and listen to some chick fan-girl all over his little brother.

"What the hell is going on?" Kat whispered, leaning closer to Dean and Chuck, but she didn't get an answer.

"You've been thinking about me," Becky was saying, nearly bursting at the seams with excitement and an ancient, carnal lust that was clearly rising in her eyes at the sight of the tall hunter. Kat thought she was going to puke.

"I-" Sam started to say, but stopped, unable to think of any way he could diffuse the bomb-like situation, and prayed that his brother wouldn't hold this over him.

"It's okay, I haven't been able to get you out of my head either!" Becky said, excitement bubbling over and Dean wondered when she was going to drop her pants and just go for it. Maybe Sam could finally get laid.

"Becky, did you take my phone?" Chuck asked, cutting across whatever rushed attempt at sanity Sam was trying to stutter out. Becky turned to the prophet as if he was stupid.

"I just borrowed it. From your pants."

Kat almost choked on her air, accidentally allowing a wheeze of strangled laughter escape from her lips. Dean cut his eyes to her, wondering if that was the first time he'd heard her laugh. It was a strange sound, unused. It reminded him of relearning to walk after he broke his leg on a hunt when he was only a freshman in high school. It was throaty, something that came from her chest and worked its way out, real sounding. Genuine in a way his own laugh hadn't been since he'd taken Cas to a brothel and tried to get him laid. He liked it.

She calmed herself down quickly, smothering her mouth with her hand, cheeks turning a light shade of pink. Becky fixed her with a withering look, something Kat was unaccustomed to and didn't understand. People confused her and it often lead to awkward social interactions that finished with her muddled and unable to discern what she'd said or done that was so bad.

"Becky!" Chuck admonished, turning his eyes on her and Kat wondered how she didn't crumple beneath the raw energy behind his eyes.

"What? They're gonna want to see it!" she squealed, turning back to face both boys as they unconsciously leaned in slightly.

"See what?" they asked together, voices mixing until it sounded like an echo. Sometimes Kat forgot how close they were, when they acted so differently. They were two separate people, joined at the hip in a way she could never really understand. They'd been through hell and back together, always together. She suddenly wondered where her place was. Wondered if their shared energy held an empty slot she could insert herself in.

She found, suddenly, that she wanted to find one. Wanted to be there. She wanted to have a place and a family in a way she'd never wanted to before. They weren't like Jamie and Blake and Jenna. They were more real, more three dimensional, and they understood her in a way no one else possibly could. It was like they spoke the same language, operated on the same frequency. Kat found that she didn't want to abandon this channel in favor of a different show.

She only wondered what part she was supposed to play.

"Oh my God," Becky was saying, her eyes rolling back in her head. "I _love _it when they talk at the same time!"

Kat didn't. It only reminded her of what she could never have. Because she and her brother never did that. And they were twins. She could remember days when they never even spoke, never even looked at the other. Jamie was never able to break down the walls around her and she was never able to get past the year he had worked on her. The year he'd stood over her of his own volition and dug a blade into her skin while Alistair watched. That wasn't something you just forgot, and she would be lying if she said it wasn't part of the reason she didn't look for him.

"Hey Chuck! C'mon pal, it's show time!" a man shouted from the porch of the hotel, clutching a clipboard in his pudgy hands. Becky squeaked and followed after the man, leaving the three hunters and the prophet alone in the parking lot.

"Guys, I'm sorry. For everything," Chuck said softly, his eyes shifting between the two boys. "Good to meet you, Kat," he tacked on, halting his steps as if waiting for her response.

"You creep me out," she said before she could stop herself, her mouth unwilling to say anything other than what she thought with no filter. She needed to learn when to shut up. "And I think you know why."

"Do you?" he asked, refusing to answer her outright. They could feel the boys' eyes on them, but they didn't move to explain or back down, just looked at each other like they were seeing for the first time. Like the light around them was blinding, but they were trying anyway.

"No," she admitted after a moment, her gaze seeming to frost over, any traces of an amiable person eradicated in a moment of steel and gunpowder and iron. "But I will find out."

It sounded almost like a threat.

Dean passed it off as her attempt to understand, _what_ he didn't know, and he told himself he didn't care. He tapped her on the shoulder roughly, breaking the spell of tension settling over the shoulders of hunter and prophet, and made a move towards the door. Sam moved just behind him, casting a concerned glance back at Kat, who stood rooted to the spot, hands shaking slightly with the effort it had taken her not to back down, not to turn away, not to run. Whatever entity Chuck was, it was not human. Of that she was certain.

But she kept her mouth shut, for reasons even she didn't completely understand, and followed them inside, sure, for now, that he wouldn't hurt anyone. She felt positive that he wasn't malevolent, he wasn't part of the enemy constantly encircling the world of hunters, the walls of black smoke and fear and pain that threatened to break through their defenses and drag them under. Chuck wasn't a part of that world, the chasm of evil and hatred. He was something different, something greater.

She shook herself, trying to pull her consciousness back to the present, trying to remember where she was. Her steps echoed in her head, lacking a syncopated beat with the two other hunters. Sam's long legs propelled him forward and Dean was close behind. Kat brought up the end, as if she was made to do so. It seemed only logical that she would round things off, tacked on to the end of the two-person train. Lacking a real place.

They walked into the hotel quickly, an urgency in their bodies driving them to understand why they'd been drawn from the possibility of a semi-soft bed and a long night of sleep. It was bright inside, brighter than the grayscale life usually held for the Winchesters, and well furnished, nicer than the two-bit motel rooms they normally roomed in. It was the nicest thing Kat could remember seeing since a hunt had required her to break into a mansion in Palm Springs. She felt almost at ease, something she couldn't recall really being for years, but it had that effect on her.

She assumed the feel was supposed to be rustic, removed from the rest of the world, and the designers had undoubtedly accomplished it. For a moment she forgot the world was ending, forgot that her past had been recently dredged to the surface. For a moment things were as normal as she would ever want them to be.

For a moment.

"Hey 'Dean'! How's it hangin'?" a fat man dressed like Dean asked brightly as he passed the hunter. Dean's eyebrows shot up, shock rising in his bloodstream followed quickly by that familiar hostility and distrust. It felt like a constant warring of emotions in his body, able to tear him to shreds within a moment's notice, with only a word from another person, only a twitch, a murmur, half a word. He wondered if it was a piece of his father living inside of his mind, that grouchy hunter unsatisfied with everything around him, feared every wrong move.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, gruffer than he should have been, his voice low and dangerous and it sent a chill up Kat's spine. She imagined that voice spoken with a twisted smile and the tip of a knife held over black eyes.

"I'm Dean too!" the man responded with an exasperated look, as if the hunter was stupid. Dean hated being stupid, hated when he felt his own intelligence lacking in the face of his genius brother. Hated it when other people assumed that he couldn't think for himself, couldn't operate beyond the levels of his brother and his father. That all he could do was follow blindly.

He grit his teeth and let the comment pass, his eyes flicking back to his brother for a moment, praying Sam had missed it. He had. Kat hadn't. The look she gave him when beyond sympathy and into understanding, that soul-deep empathetic bond that only two people with the same problem could understand. Dean suddenly wanted to talk to her, sit across from her in the pale moonlight on a cool night and empty his soul to the only other person who could speak his language of halting half-truths and the inability to describe the feeling of being trapped in a hell darker than your imagination.

He wanted to whisper his story and have it bounce off of her soul and feel her understand with nothing but the soft gaze she would give him. He wanted a friend, for a moment. Not a brother, not an angel, not a father figure, not a prophet. He wanted a friend.

It passed through his mind in a minute, while his face betrayed nothing but the belated shock of the larger man's statement only moments before. _I'm Dean too! _In Dean's experience, when people were _him, _bad things happened. Time stretched on, infinite and winding within his head, as he wondered how the fourth wall kept managing to break, that _one _thing that should have held sure in the swirling chaos that was their lives. That was why he didn't like Chuck.

Chuck meant the complications of his writing. It was disconcerting, at first, to hear that people read his life, his thoughts, his exploits; worse to hear that some people actually liked it. Actually loved his character, loved who he was, without meeting him, without knowing him beyond the confines of words on a page. It was foreign, something he was unable to wrap his mind around, and it scared him.

He just wouldn't admit that.

He knew Sam felt similarly, felt the grip of inhuman denial, a wish to crawl away and never come back. Because they had done things, both of them, that they weren't proud of, things that could never be redeemed. And every slip, every fault, every hang-up, and every twist and turn of their agonizingly painful lives was out on display.

And the minute the fat one dressed as him called himself 'Dean', the hunter was thrown back to his discovery of LARPing, and a cold, twisting knot of dread coiled in his stomach. He wouldn't like this, he could feel it.


	28. Chapter 28

Kat swiped a hand through her hair, cobalt eyes wandering the homey inn with the gaze of a predator and a confused tourist rolled into one, lacking a map or a scent to guide her. Costumed _people_, regular normal _people, _flooded her vision and they wore colored contacts that set down masks of horror, skin-deep alterations that left her reeling. Black eyes that didn't create a double image she was used to, seeing black smoke beneath a host, teeth, claws, evil in its purest form. She only saw people. She swallowed, looking away because she needed to, finding Chuck's eyes instead. Another trip, confusing tilt in this new world she suddenly found herself in, where humans dressed like monsters and a writer had eyes that were endless and commanding in a way she was frightened by. She wasn't afraid of anything. Not anymore.

But his eyes reminded her of a news cast after a tragedy, when you knew the answers wouldn't be good and your heart would rather you stay ignorant, stay wrapped in bliss, but you couldn't look away. What he had to tell you could change everything, and you wanted to know without the effects. But one didn't come without the other. Indecision meant death in the world she lived in, it meant more time for the enemy to act, to pull you down, to end your life. And still, her eyes flicked to his and away, constantly, a dance that left the room spinning and her wishing she had more willpower.

She wanted to look again, struggled not to, and fought the urge to decode the mysteries the nervous man carried. She couldn't tell how long she stood there, trying not to meet his eyes, but she failed. Kat's eyes flicked to him again, and she nearly sighed with relief when she found her line of sight interrupted by Dean, his shoulders tense and his jaw set and his eyes hard and breaking. She was enraptured, ensnared in the muddled green, worry choking out the flashes of gold she'd come to recognize in the rear view mirror. He hadn't even looked worried when Alistair had pinned him to the concrete in the warehouse, threatening his life and his sanity with silky words that wormed into his soul.

She thought she understood. There was something about your life being thrown back at you, crashing down on your senses and you realize to everyone else you're crazy or a fan. And there were other people wandering this world wearing his clothes and repeating his mannerisms and driving his car and pretending they were him, as if he was someone people would want to impersonate.

She was staring, and it was weighing on Dean's mind, setting his nerves alive with the knowledge of her scrutiny. The closer she looked, the more likely she was to find his faults, every flaw in his armor, every quirk in his movements, every shame and guilt and self-hating thought he kept to himself. She would see that he wasn't strong, wasn't good, wasn't worth her time. And then she would leave. Like everyone else had.

"Dean, I don't understand why there are people dressed as you and your brother," Kat said quietly, breaking the suffocating, awkward silence. Sam's eyes flicked to her, as if expecting someone else to be there, instead of the slight girl with dark circles under her eyes and her hair worn tangled and wild.

"Becky, what is this?" Sam asked instead of answering Kat, the answer already in his head but he needed the confirmation. He was afraid of the answer.

"It's _awesome,_" she crooned, like a hyperactive preteen after Justin What's-his-face released his new nail polish line. Sam took a half step back, as if expecting her to jump him, and maybe she was going to. Kat caught motion with a barely restrained smile, something that still looked foreign on her lips and Sam saw it as a window to what she might have been if things were different. If Kat were different.

She would have been soft and sweet and buried in her college text books and she'd smile all the time. And Sam would never know her, unless she chose to go to Stanford, and she would have been a friend of Jess' and he would have called her 'sis' more than once. Dean would come down from some auto-shop he worked at to see him and they'd meet and Dean would use her for a night and then he'd leave. She'd be broken, retreat into her books and her ability to work with her hands and Sam would rarely see her. Her family would feel her pain, and her twin would eventually beat Dean to a bloody pulp and then she'd move away.

He shivered, causing Becky to lean closer to him, and tried to rid himself of the sentiment. He preferred Kat now, blooming into a new person who smiled occasionally and said things that left him sure she knew more about the world than he could ever really grasp. He hit earth again when Chuck answered his question, finally, pulling himself from the grip of alternate realities and depression.

They were still standing there, waiting for a question to be answered with a swarm of bad doppelgangers filling the hotel lobby. Not much time had passed, only a pause, a breath of air to everyone around them. The hunters felt the moment as eternal.

"A _Supernatural _convention," Chuck piped up under Dean's harsh glare, that kind of look he'd written a thousand times, that always intimidated him a little. Two years ago Dean was only a figment of his imagination, the only thing between him and an eviction notice; if someone had told him then that Dean Winchester would be in front of him, could be a threat to his well-being, he would have laughed. Loudly.

"The first ever!" Becky exclaimed.

"Supernatural as in the realm of otherworldly creatures?" Kat asked, confusion evident in her eyes. "Is that why that German man over there is dressed in a straw bag with a fake hook?"

"It's a series of books," Sam said tiredly, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. "Based on us. Called _Supernatural."_

Kat stifled a chuckle, the mask of focus dying in her eyes and amusement pushing through. She wasn't as cold as she was projecting, the determination to hone in on the hunt fading away as she fixed her eyes on Sam. "Is that what's got you all tense? And these people are really that devoted? To a book about two demon-fighting, emotionally-stunted, brothers on a road trip?" she paused, her sarcasm so clear Dean didn't bother to be offended. "Actually, that sounds like a good read."

She turned to Chuck, digging in her pocket for a neatly folded assortment of bills. Her head tipped to the side, tendrils of midnight hair falling into her eyes. Dean rolled his eyes, unsure if he should pass this off as her socially awkward attempt at a joke or if he should stop her. He would be lying if he said he was comfortable with the thought of her reading him, of this woman he barely knew vaulting into the swirling mass that was his life and methodically picking him apart, seeing every flaw in his armor.

"How much for the set?" she asked, counting twenties like she had money to spend. Chuck blinked, fumbling erratically for his own wallet, a shaky hand outstretching for her offered money after softly stuttering out a number that wouldn't get him laughed at. She passed him the money as Chuck called over a mousy man with a boxed set, cutting her eyes to Dean as if daring him to stop her.

He didn't. After hearing every excruciating detail of her past, every moment that made him want to rush to the bathroom and heave up the remains of his last meal, every quiver of her voice and slow blink of her eyes, she deserved it. She deserved the same uninhibited truth, the same access to a story no one really wanted to know once it left the realm of fantasy. He nodded to her, a quiet assent she could read easily. The cocky sarcasm drifted from her eyes as quickly as it came, gratitude replacing it.

She switched faster than Dean could keep up with, emotions swirling in her chest and rushing through her veins and crashing through her skull, all fighting to reach the surface. She was more complicated than he liked to think, than he'd pretended she was when he first saw her, hard eyes and bloody arm and words on her lips Dean could understand. _Pain's good. _

Sam couldn't know that he identified with that, that he understood the raw need to know you were really alive. That this world wasn't all some new torture designed by the Master, the architect of your nightmares, hovering over you with his blade in hand, and you would wake up to your own screams like you'd never left. He didn't want to think like that. Neither did she.

Dean understood more about her than he would ever admit, saw himself clearly in her when he didn't want to. Could silently allow her the ability to see herself in him. To know him like a lover could, every vein that stood out on the ropey muscles of his arms, every callus, every scar. She could know his mind and his heart. She could see him like Dean had been allowed to see her, broken on the inside with walls crumbling before his gold-green eyes. He'd never been so enraptured by a breaking hunter, shards of emotion and years of pent-up despair leaking out of her voice as it broke mountains, reduced the confines of their motel to ashes. He could only hope she wouldn't run once the smoke cleared and she got a good look at him.

"Put them underneath the '67, license plate CNK 80Q3, Ohio plates," she told the man holding the long boxed set of thirteen or so thin, black books. He nodded, rushing off to the parking lot as Kat turned back the boys. "I hope that was okay with both of you," she said quietly, her eyes finding the floor as she struggled to voice her thoughts. "I-I just want to understand…everything."

She carded a hand through her hair, wondering why this was so difficult. She couldn't put into words why she wanted a glimpse into their lives, why she wanted to see the world through their eyes. She didn't quite know herself. Maybe she wanted to know if Dean saw things differently, without the haze of mistrust and pain set on her by the edge of a blade. Maybe she wanted to make things even, to level the playing field of painful memories being vaulted into the open. Or maybe she wanted to know _them_, really and honestly without the tense, awkward, and painful conversation that would come with it.

"I don't know how else to say it," she said, an awkward laugh coloring her words. "I just want to…maybe be a part of something a little bit better than just me and a highway and a drink and a hunt."

The brothers paused as one, staring at the woman in front of them numbly, allowing the hotel to fade into the back of their minds, as their vision focused on her, for the first time in hours, when the possibility of a hunt had them racing to the middle of nowhere with only a rare glance to the backseat. The dark circles under her eyes looked more like bruises, rough and brand-like in their darkness, and her shoulders were slumped slightly, lacking the straight-backed assurance the brothers had come to associate with hunters. She was letting them in. Her eyes were the same bright blue, but the walls were down, the cold edge eradicated, and Sam could see that she was slightly panicked. Like she thought rejection was coming, sure of its fast-rising and dangerous swell.

She toed the ground with her boot, trying to ignore the scrutiny of both hunters and pretended like she wasn't fearing a shut-down, a dismissal, the invitation to take a hike she'd come to associate with most people. There was no avoiding it, and Jamie had been right when he told her it was better to avoid the possibility of dismissal and the pain that came with it. It was better to be armored than to let them in far enough to hurt you.

She'd had enough of hurt for the sake of family. She couldn't make herself believe that she could be taken in again, could be loved and cared for in an unconditional and selfless way. She'd kept Jenna and Blake at arm's length for that reason. She couldn't trust anyone not to let her down, not to confirm the fears she'd harbored for so long.

But six years was a long time, and the brothers had helped her eradicate the monsters in her closet, the shadows in her mind. She didn't have anything to be afraid of anymore.

"Yeah, yeah…it's okay," Sam answered for both of them, seeing Dean's relaxed shoulders and knowing he'd already given silent consent. The spaces between them seemed smaller, like they'd bridged a section over churning waters, and Kat allowed a soft look to mix into her eyes, like Sam's words were endlessly important. The taller hunter smiled, an expression that still seemed foreign to Kat, but she felt like she should return it. When it rose to her lips, it didn't feel forced, seemed natural for her lips to curve upwards, for her eyes to crinkle.

Dean caught the expression before it had fully formed, imprinting the motion into his mind without his full knowledge. It was something he didn't understand, an upward pull of dusky pink lips that shouldn't mean as much as it did. It was like watching a child learn how to walk.

He wondered how socially awkward she _really _was, underneath the cocky, assured nature of a hunter. How she operated without being able to shake hands with someone, how she moved with the impending danger of a flashback always present in her mind. Dean could see when she was thinking of Alistair, just like Sam knew when Dean was thinking of the demon. There was a shift in her eyes, a hardening of the endless blue that closed things off. Like the sky before a storm, still blue but not as forgiving.

Becky's awkward laugh interrupted the moment, cutting through the tension and the twisted memories, as she latched herself to Sam's side. The room around them came rushing back and everything was too loud, the sounds of the convention bearing down on their senses as she tugged mercilessly on Sam's side.

Sam allowed himself to be dragged into the next room, throwing a pleading glance at Dean as his big brother chuckled lowly. Kat suppressed a snicker at Sam's obvious discomfort and followed Becky into the next room. The conference room was poorly lit, but a yellow pentagram stood out, hanging against the red curtains at the back of the stage. Garish letters covered the symbol, proclaiming this to be the _First Annual Supernatural Convention_. The words around it were part of an exorcism, something that seemed oddly fitting for the array of people filling the room. She saw at least three Ash impersonators, greasy mullets and cut-off flannel their main identifying factors. Others dressed as monsters, and Kat had to keep herself from reaching for her gun on sheer instinct. She couldn't count how many 'Sam and Dean's she saw, but there were too many for her taste. Just to the left of the stage was a poster on display of two overly muscled men, looking off sullenly into the distance. They were both undeniably attractive, as far as illustrations go, one with flowing shoulder-length hair and the other wearing only a black wife-beater as a shirt.

"Is this how you saw them?" Kat asked, amusement glittering in her eyes as she glanced at the skittish author. Chuck shrugged, a jerking movement that reminded her of a caged animal. He wouldn't meet her eyes, for which she was grateful. Her head was still spinning, and she needed time to understand what Chuck meant. The possibility of something greater than her and non-threatening was daunting. She remembered the man who gripped her tightly by the wrist and pulled her from the sticky confines of an air duct. But Chuck didn't hold that golden _light_. He was something different. Something even more powerful, and confusing. Not good, but not evil.

"I didn't do the art," he muttered, mussing his already chaotic hair. She turned towards him, ignoring Dean and Sam's looks.

"How does it work? Seeing them, I mean," she asked, as if it were a normal question. Dean didn't think she would know if she had crossed a boundary, even if she had. Her understanding of normalcy didn't extend to personal lines.

"It involves copious amount of headaches and alcohol," Chuck said shortly, avoiding her intense stare. She blinked, figuring that was all she would be able to get out of him, and stepped back, watching him quietly move towards the stage.

"He's abnormal," she commented softly, once he was out of earshot. Dean rolled his eyes almost affectionately and followed her gaze as the nervous writer ran a hand through his hair again.

"No shit," he muttered, green eyes following his every movement as if waiting for the slight man to take a step out of line, prompting his anger.

Kat shook her head, hair falling into her eyes, but she didn't bother to move it. "No, I mean, he's _different_. I just don't know how." She sounded frustrated, like the blood pumping through her veins was accompanied by a level of irritation neither of them could fully understand.

"Hello!" the same man who'd let them in was standing on the stage with a clipboard in hand. "Welcome to the First annual _Supernatural _Convention!" A round of applause greeted his words and Kat politely joined in. Dean rolled his eyes, and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. "At 3:35 in the Magnolia Room we have the panel 'Frightened Little Boy: The Secret Life of Dean'. At 4:30, there's the 'Homoerotic subtext of Supernatural'."

Kat couldn't hold back a giggle as her eyes shifted to a frozen and tense pair of very real brothers, glaring at Chuck as if their lives depended on it. Dean's eyes were blown wide, a mixture of disgust and vicious loathing for anyone who doubted his masculinity. Kat could practically see the 'I'm a manly-man' gears turning in his head as both brothers relaxed into a tough-guy position, shoulders back and muscles flexing imperceptibly. Dean fixed her with a hard look when she chuckled, as if daring her to argue his strength, his warrior status.

"Oh and the big hunt starts at 7 sharp!" the convention head said brightly as the small crowd erupted into another string of applause. Kat looked almost giddy, her fingers twitching in excitement and amusement.

"This is the most fun I've had in years," she said lightly, her words hitting just a bit too close to home for Dean, and he didn't say anything. Didn't mention how uncomfortable he was, how barren and naked he felt under the eyes of those who'd read his thoughts, his fears. He didn't say anything at all, because Kat had the hint of a smile on the corner of her lips and she looked like she was genially interested in whatever came next. It was like not bugging Sam about his library fetish after he'd had a bad day.

"But right now- right now I want to introduce to you the reason we're all here today, the creator and writer of the _Supernatural _books, the one, the only, Carver Edlund!" the man gave a broad sweep with his arm and Chuck stepped on stage amidst loud applause an room-lighting grins.

"Carver Edlund?" Kat asked, confusion evident on her pale face.

"Pen name," Sam muttered, watching the prophet make his way to the microphone. She nodded, pretending like she understood the rationality behind creating a fake name for yourself, and resolved that it was one of the mysteries of life she would never fully comprehend.

"I don't get it either," Dean supplied before she could adopt that look of self-loathing he knew so well. She sent him a look that was somewhere in between grateful and confused. As if she didn't understand why Dean was being nice to her. He could be nice when he wanted to be. Couldn't he?

He shrugged as if Kat had asked the question out loud, laying out his own truth; he didn't know the answer. He didn't know why he gave a damn about what she thought. He should give _less _than a damn, seeing how she was a hunter. But something about her was different and he was willing to lay aside his defensive nature to see something deeper than the wall she projected. She was a puzzle he wanted to solve. She was an enigma he couldn't name.

She was the possibility of a friend and an ally he didn't even have in Castiel. He wanted to know more before he let her in.

Her cerulean eyes fixed on his jade for an instant, not long enough to be measured by time, and flicked away, focusing on Chuck as if the words he was awkwardly spitting were divine. He paused in his brief attempt to speak, claiming dry mouth, and began guzzling water as if he were Chuck Noland in _Cast Away_, in desperate need of water and way off of the island. Dean wouldn't be surprised if Chuck had his own volleyball to talk to somewhere in his house.

The bizarreness of the moment sunk in, pressing against his skin like the cool fingers of a lover. He realized that he was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by thirty or so people that had read and apparently adored his story, with a woman who had been to Hell and back, staring at a prophet sucking down every drop of water he could in order to stave off facing a crowd of 'fans' just a bit longer, next to his brother, who was still squirming under the gaze of a freaky fan-girl, pretending he wasn't about to die of discomfort.

As far as weird days go, this was getting up there with the Trickster encounters, when Dean was torn between laughing and crying and dying. He hoped this would be just a bit easier. But he doubted it.


	29. Chapter 29

Kat was bunched between the two brothers, feeling her body warm with their body heat and threatening to send her drifting off into sleep, where she could find rest. She blinked lethargically, reminding herself of her earlier fascination as Chuck finally stopped guzzling water like he would die without it. He shifted, his electric gaze, like morning swirled into one harmonious blue and divided between two eyes, turning towards the crowd anxiously, as if the author felt terrified and small. Kat wondered suddenly if he saw the eager faces as the demons from the Winchesters' story, the ones he saw flashing before his eyes with no end in sight, no way to pull it back and make it stop. And he was subjected to the carnivorous smiles and the inky eyes and the cat-like movements that spelled death. Maybe, as he faced the crowd, he was facing his own demons.

"So I guess….questions?" Chuck stuttered out, his voice a high whisper across the room, even with the microphone. Kat wondered if the power in his eyes that held her enraptured was blocked off, hard to access, impossible to touch. Hands shot into the air, all participants ripe with questions, the enthusiasm in their violent motions nearly jarring.

"Are the books that good?" Kat asked, trying to pull back the skepticism from her voice, hoping not to offend either of the brothers. Sam looked down at her thoughtfully, brow furrowed and confused for a moment.

"Not really," he said after a moment. "But I guess the story is pretty…dramatic, now that I think about it." He seemed almost unwilling to admit it, like he would rather pretend his life was boring, devoid of a story arc that could mesmerize readers, draw them in and leave them invested in him and his brother and their father. He didn't deserve the unwavering devotion these addicts clearly had for him and Dean, like they were gods amongst men and should be worshiped. It made him uncomfortable.

"Please," Dean scoffed, not taking his eyes from the nervous writer on stage, who was still struggling to pick a questioner from among the sea of fans before him. "They're only obsessed because I was full frontal." The flatness with which he spoke brought Kat's thoughts to a halt, her mind battling between confusion and shock, leaving her breathless.

"_What?" _She asked before she could stop herself, speaking around the edges of a laugh that almost felt natural, almost felt real. Her eyes cut to Dean and she thought his eyes could rival Chuck's in their depth, endless and boundless, greens and golds wrapped around each other in a cyclical embrace. The edges were crinkled in amusement, a soft look working its way into the filmed-over mask of a hunter at the sound of her chuckle.

"Hey, Mr. Edlund!" A fan said excitedly, barely containing his hyperactivity as he stood and bounced on the balls of his feet. The hunters' attention was drawn back to the head of the room as a younger man gazed up at Chuck adoringly."Uh, big fan, wow... okay, I was just wondering. Where'd you come up with Sam and Dean in the first place?" he asked, stumbling over his last words as if wondering if he would offend the writer.

Dean and Sam stared, heads tilted curiously, but Chuck saw a threat, knew they were staring into his soul like they were looking for a mistake, a screw up to take hold of and pull, rip down and open until he was broken. Kat was between them, looking interesting, fascinated, no different than the times he'd watched her interact with the brothers, like the world was mesmerizing. She hid it behind layers of armor he didn't fully understand, protection that frightened him with its impenetrable strength, and guarded herself, as if she would be chastised for finding the waking world beautiful, as if she was not allowed to appreciate this creation. He knew she could stare out windows for hours just staring at the sky like the expanse of particles reflecting water had emotions, but held herself back, stopped her gaze short of adoring and kept it blank. Ingrained self-hatred seemed to be a disease in the world of hunters.

"Oh uh…" he managed to push out, remembering he had to answer a question and feeling eyes burning holes through his shirt and scorching his skin like Castiel's handprint had on Dean's shoulder. He sighed internally, hating it when he made references to his writing in his mind, forgetting that they were real sometimes. "It just... came to me. Okay, the hook man." He moved on as quickly as he could.

"Okay, so why in every fight scene, Sam and Dean are having their gun or knife knocked away by the bad guy?" The man asked with a thick German accent, staring at Chuck as if all of this was obvious. The hunters' faces unanimously crumpled into annoyance, and Kat struggled to keep her mouth shut. _He'd never been where they had, he'd never seen what they had seen, blood stained their hands, blackness leaked into their souls. They were damaged in a way he could never understand, they were hardened and they were warriors. What right did he have to criticize them?_ "Why don't they keep it on some kind of bungee?"

_Okay_, Kat conceded, noting Sam's suddenly thoughtful look, _he had a point there_.

"Uh, I really don't know," Chuck mumbled, pointedly avoiding the hunters, again. Kat wasn't that surprised, but she wanted him to look back, convinced that with one more real look, she could understand the power behind his vulnerable and panic-filled eyes. She was sure she could read him.

"Yeah, follow up – why can't Sam and Dean be telling that Ruby is evil? I mean she is clearly manipulating Sam in some kind of moral lapse. Is obvious, right?" the hookman asked, his accent slurring his words together and making them difficult to discern. But both brothers tensed in a way that told Kat all she really needed to know; the man had hit something, tapped some hidden cavern of not-yet-dealt-with-issues and that was not allowed, as per the Winchester Code. She shifted uncomfortably, hyper -aware of the sudden stiffness between the two, and wondering what had happened, who Ruby was, why she was important.

She wondered if she'd ever get the chance to find out, or if the brothers would change their mind, would decide that she shouldn't know, didn't deserve to. Kat swallowed, eyes finding the floor, toeing it with her boot, doing anything to push away the idea of being shut out by the first family she'd found since Bobby lifted her off the ground in front of a warehouse in Maine. Memories were rushing back, swirling in her head and trying to drown her under the weight, and she didn't know how heavy a moment could be. She was afraid to ask, afraid to speak at all and upset this balance. Afraid to drive them away and have them leave her behind. Words are like a touch, and some touches are bruising.

_The empty highway was quiet, empty air making no noise now that the thrum of the Impala had faded, disappeared over the horizon you could never quite reach. Kat absently kicked up dust as she walked, remembering the town they had passed through only a few miles back. Or maybe it was twenty. It didn't really matter._

_ Jamie was beside her, his messy black hair rustling slightly in the wind, baking like her's was under the sun. His brown eyes were bottomless and closed off all at once as he met her eyes, that same removed distance he always had around her, like he was treading carefully, afraid to overstep his boundaries and break the carefully constructed masks between the two. The ones that told them they were okay, connected and united like twins ought to be. _

_ "He's not gonna come back, is he?" he asked, his voice softer than her's was though she was never sure why; she was supposed to be the softer of the two. Kat looked up, stared, shook her head, not wanting to talk. "I think it's because you asked about Mary," he said flatly, eyes misting over in something in-between sorrow and contempt. _

_ "He said it was because his kids needed him," Kat said, confusion coloring her tone, black hair falling in her eyes and sticking to her forehead. "We can't fault him for leaving us. Not when his family needs him."_

_ "They've needed him for months, he's only just leaving now. I don't think that's it," Jamie rebuked, shaking his head solemnly, as if he knew something she didn't. Their arms brushed accidentally, Kat jerked her arm away on instinct. She couldn't remember the last time she hugged him._

_ "I doubt me asking about his wife made him leave," Kat mumbled, carding a hand through her hair and scanning the road for passing cars._

_ "Just- just try not to be so nosy next time, okay? I don't want either of us left behind again anytime soon," Jamie mumbled, trying to be good natured and leaving her reeling, sure she'd done something wrong, made a mistake in the handling of John Winchester. She didn't look at him after that, and for a moment she was sure he sighed in relief._

The convention room came flooding back, like she'd never left when her mind had been so removed, lost in moments she'd rather forget, spinning endlessly, spinning in and out. And her mouth made mistakes, spewing words no one wanted to hear and they bit in and didn't let go and she couldn't take them back. Sometimes they drove people away, made them leave her on the side of the road with her twin and her bags and the knowledge that she could cause pain with a sentence. Words are like a touch, and some touches leave scars.

She blinked past emotion, forcing it back and pretending she didn't feel Dean's gaze on her face, the feel of his eyes on her. She knew. She wondered how much time had passed, realized another fan was standing to ask his question, eager eyes turned to the man with the answers. Kat wondered if she would ever be comfortable asking questions.

"Yeah okay, so at the end of the last book, Dean goes to hell, so, what happens next?" the man asked nervously, eyes flicking over other audience members, gauging if he was asking the right question. Dean tensed, shut his eyes for a moment, long enough for Kat to read the effort to close out the rest of the world, to fight off memories he didn't fully understand, couldn't come to terms with because they were too dark and pushing your hand through inky blackness to dredge out images was scary. Too scary.

She shifted, her arm brushing Dean's lightly, her form of empathy, condolence, the passing of strength through the whisper of skin on skin. His eyes opened, bright green seemed hollow and bleak, but he smiled, nodding his thanks.

She didn't fully understand his story, knowing only the sparing details Ash gave her on the night the man rose from the pits, when the redneck had gotten drunk in celebration and shouted to the bar that Winchesters are '_never really gone_'. But it wasn't her place to ask, and the memory of an open road and her twin brother made her silent, unwilling to speak.

"Oh. There lies an announcement, actually. Um, you're all gonna find out," Chuck said, and for once he sounded almost like the prophet he was supposed to be. His voice was soft, inviting, warm, like he was welcoming the lost home. "Um, thanks to a wealthy Scandinavian investor, we're gonna start publishing again!" He finished, his words lacking all the enthusiasm she was expecting, as the crowd immediately erupted into applause, smiles breaking onto their faces before the hunters could be sure of what was happening.

She could feel the disapproval rolling off of the brothers and it was leaving her swimming, unsure which way to lean; she remained impartial, untouched by conflicting emotions in the room. She sighed. _This was going to be a long day._

Xx

The hotel bar was dark and smoky, drenched in a layer of rich color and dark wood that reminded Kat vaguely of _The Shining, _which she knew by flashing pictures on a screen that still astounded her. She was walking behind Dean and Sam, whose steps were too purposeful, too angry. Her eyes flicked around the room, taking in clowns with twisted fangs and scarecrows with bloody eyes. She shivered, wondering if the fans took some form of obscene pleasure in masking themselves as the faces children saw in nightmares. Her hand danced too close to her gun, concealed in her waistband by her leather jacket and careful motions, but knowing it was there gave her comfort. The weight was almost a part of her now, so different from the dangerous and heavy way she'd thought of it for the first few months, like she was sure it would go off on its own.

She stayed close to the brothers, but her steps lacked the purpose theirs held, the angry need to retain their own privacy pumping through their bodies and blinding them, tunneling their vision until all they saw was Chuck and all he saw was the threat of a black eye. They reached the quivering prophet and the jittery fan girl within the moment, Kat a moment behind, her eyes anywhere but on the boys as they fumed.

Dean's blood was pumping through his veins at a rate only he could describe as torturous, too fast and too angry and too pent up, because he didn't need a thousand people reading about what he did when he was a million feet under, holding a knife above a squirming victim in the total darkness of his soul. He'd been more demon than human then, and Castiel could barely recognize him when the angel came to grip him tight and raise him from _perdition, _too nice of a word to describe the webs of hatred and fear and pain that infected the body and the mind and twisted everything. Dean didn't need a thousand people knowing that he wasn't the hero they loved.

He cut in on Chuck's soft-spoken attempt at asking Becky out, watching the girl's hazel eyes fixate on his brother a bit too long for Sam's comfort. Dean's enraged demeanor incinerated the awkward moment between the author and his fan, eclipsing Chuck's stammering overtures completely.

"Hey, Sam!" Becky called adoringly, her head tilting slightly and an expression that could only be construed as awe passed over her features. It was sickening.

"Yeah excuse me," Dean cut across before anything could be said, green eyes focused on the smaller man and everything in his mind screamed _HITHIM. HITHIM. HITHIM_, but they were in public, so he spoke instead. His words were harsh and tinged with the promise of violence, the barest hint of his accent slipping through in his frustration. "I don't know if you've noticed, but our plates are kinda full. I mean, finding the Colt, hunting the Devil, we don't have time for this crap!" He ended near a shout, hating every pair of eyes that glanced his way.

"Hey, I didn't call you here-" Chuck tried to push out, leaning back slightly in his seat as if to avoid Dean's projection of anger. It wasn't working.

"He means the books, Chuck," Sam said, bitch face out and voice hard. He was the brother Dean recalled fighting with his father, shouting at the top of his lungs and winning an argument because he was the smart kid that could out-talk anyone. "Why are you publishing more books?"

"I dunno…food, shelter?" Chuck asked, nervous sarcasm coloring his words and making a small smile rise to Kat's lips. She stood slightly apart, having no part in the argument and taking to staring that the fruity looking drinks before Becky and Chuck like they were mesmerizing.

"Who the hell gave you the rights to our life story?" Dean asked dangerously, leaning too close to the prophet and the pain of his mother's death was rising in his heart again, taking hold of his body and twisting up and back, manipulating his soul until it was mangled, leaving him more broken than before. No one should get to read that, see the raw, untamable pain he felt whenever the woman was mentioned, the way he struggled to control his voice when he smelled strawberries or stared at the ceiling too long, imagining her body pinned there.

"An archangel," Chuck said, gaining strength for a moment and pushing the words out of his mouth with more energy than the Winchesters could ever remember. "And I didn't want it." Headaches were his norm and they were blinding, sending him crashing to the floor of his dilapidated house nearly every day, liquor was going to kill him soon, he had no doubt, and his vision was never really clear. It had been worse when Sam had visions, then Chuck had to see them too, feel every stabbing pain through his head and his heart at every wrong turn in their story. Every trip, every fall, Chuck knew better than he knew his own body.

"Yeah, well, deal's off," Sam said flatly, no sympathy in his eyes. People would read about his addiction, the sweet taste of Ruby's blood flooding his mouth and his choice to follow her, leave Dean behind. The darkest moment of his life. So Far. "No more books. Our lives are not for public consumption." A cold look settled over his eyes and, for a moment, Chuck remembered that Sam was just as dangerous, sometimes more so, than his brother.

Kat was still standing there, staring into space because it wasn't right to interfere. The battle they were fighting wasn't something she could join in. This was personal and it was psychological. Their minds and hearts and layers of guilt over guilt were terrified, rightly so. She would feel the same.

But her instincts told her to back off, so she didn't speak. She stood so silently she was sure they'd forgotten about her. She wouldn't have been surprised. She felt all over the place, emotions stemming from years of being locked away suddenly free and flowing into each other without restraint, playing in the sunlight in a way she didn't understand.. Dips and turns and twists were leaving her breathless, clutching at the edges of her mind as she tried to reel herself back. It was hard to stay focused when her mind felt scattered, pulled in a thousand directions, a thousand thoughts circling each other endlessly.

"Uh, Becky, will you excuse us for just a second?" Chuck asked, his eyes misting over to try and hide his pleading anxiety, nearly begging for her to leave them be for a moment; her eyes on him were beyond disconcerting.

"Uh huh!" She agreed excitedly, watching them stand and begin walking into another room while taking a contemplative sip of her Yellow-eyed Cooler. She may or may not have been watching Sam's ass as he walked away.

Kat was just going to keep standing there, maybe browse through the merchandise in the other room, escape the suffocating smoke of the bar room, when Dean laid a hand on her shoulder, tugging slightly. She followed. She wasn't sure why.

Dean held onto her shoulder.

The weight of his hand was comforting, the notion foreign and alien to her, where a touch brought soothing warmth that infiltrated skin with soft touches that left you in that hazy realm of not-quite-awake and you weren't sure if you were dreaming, or if the world was really this comfortable. She _knew _it wasn't, but she savored the feel of his rough hand pressing against the collar of her jacket, that juncture between neck and shoulder, where his skin barely brushed hers, leather and cloth blocking his way. It was close enough, but for Kat it wasn't quite _close _enough. The absurdity of the thought made her stiffen, her movements halting for a moment.

Touch was supposed to be frightening, supposed to make her jerk away and itch like something was wrong. Not want to lean in.

Questioning green eyes met hers, head tilted slightly and lips quirked down, confused. She shook her head absently, shaking away her thoughts and his questions all at once, and made to move forwards. Realization shot through his gaze, making the gold seem clear and defined, reaching out into his eyes like the fingers of angels. He moved his hand, sure the touch was making her uncomfortable, hating himself for overstepping that unspoken boundary. He turned back, following his brother into a separate room where they could speak to Chuck. She frowned at his back, feeling cool air invade her skin, missing his touch.

"Do you guys know what I do for a living?" Chuck asked, cutting across her thoughts with a high-pitched bitter voice. She looked up, meeting his eyes and wishing she didn't because she still didn't understand them. She swallowed, carding a hand through her hair as if the action could give her comfort. He looked away and she sighed in relief, feeling the commanding control behind the blue ease off of her like raindrops on a window. Lightning and sunrises mixed in his gaze, like it couldn't decide where to lean, what aspect to envelope when it had the capability to do it all, see it all. She wondered if night resided there, if stars and planets swirled behind his eyes like she imagined they would, if rain crashed through his senses and thunder reverberated through his eardrums. She wondered if destruction and the creation found even ground within his body.

"Yeah, yeah we know," Sam said tiredly, rolling his eyes and looking at the ceiling, silent prayer for a break on his lips. It would go unheard.

"Well could you tell me, 'cause I don't. I-I'm not a good writer," Chuck managed, eyes shifting to the floor as if embarrassed and Sam couldn't help but agree with him. The plot was theirs alone, no one could change that, but '_With determination, Dean pushed the doorbell with forceful determination?' _The guy had to be kidding himself if he thought he was good. "I've got no marketable skills, I'm not some hero, who can just hit the road and fight monsters, okay, until the world ends." Dean's eyes hardened, filmed over, anger rising in his chest at just the thought that their life was anything but agonizing, terrible, miserable. "I gotta live! Alright? And the Supernatural books are all I got! What else do you want me to do?" Chuck gazed at them with anxious eyes, half expecting suitable answer, shifting uncomfortably under Kat's intense eyes.

She looked like she wanted to say something, had a thought on the tip of her tongue and she was just about to catch it, impart some wisdom the three men in the room would treasure. Chuck leaned forward, almost unconsciously, intent on hearing her voice for the first time since he walked on stage, wondering what she would say.

A raw scream cut her off.

The hunters were running before they were aware of the fact, bodies pushing forward and around a corner and up a set of stairs while Chuck tried to call them back. This time Kat was in the lead, taking off before the other two could even react, words of comfort and maybe even wisdom frozen in her throat as the voice carried through the hotel, rebounding off the walls. Emotion and feeling and the sensation of good touches were thrown into a backseat as her body went into high gear, the thrill of the hunt urging her forward as she took the stairs three at a time, heavy footfalls crashing through her senses and she was dimly aware that more than just the brothers had responded to the cry of terror. But this wasn't a game the devoted fans knew how to play, and suddenly she was back in her element, confidence rising in her system and all she needed was the too-fast heartbeat and the need to protect to become the cocky hunter the brothers had met in the Roadhouse. The Hunt was on, and she was done being a bystander.


	30. Chapter 30

A scream faded to the background under the force of thundering steps. Kat was running, forcing herself up a narrow staircase cast in shadow, the halls above drenched in night and the warm glow of lamps. She could hear Dean and Sam just behind her, their footfalls filled with the same insistence, the need to do something valuable, something good. She was numb, on automatic, as her nerves sent sparks of energy across her tired body until all she could think about was saving someone. Her free hand gripped the banister for leverage on the turn, vaulting her body towards a petite blonde woman in a clean, freshly pressed blue uniform. She was curled in on herself, knees to her chest and a black feather duster tickling her face. Kat saw no sign of injury as she skidded to an abrupt halt in front of the woman. Determination burned in Kat's blue eyes, her hands reaching out.

Dean stopped just behind her, heart beating loud enough to drown out the murmurs of fans pressing in on them, forming an intimidating half circle around the blonde maid. Darkness and moonlight flooded in through the stained-glass window at the end of the hall, casting misshapen shadows on the walls, fitting them together like pieces of a puzzle that kept drawing his attention. Kat's pale skin caught blue and green light, and it was enrapturing. Her muscles were taught with a wiry edge that seemed to contradict the soft curves of her body, the kind men would like to trace with rough fingers, soft kisses, and wet tongues. She was running on adrenaline and the need to prove herself, and he could tell. His head pounded in time to his own heartbeats, he could hear them clearly, feel the pulse through his fingertips. It sent shivers down his spine. He could imagine Kat pinned beneath a body, that heart pounding in her lover's ears as they traced their way through scars and sweat and that little breathy sound she made when she reached the top of the steps.

Kat helped the woman up and suddenly Dean was working, pulled away from the patterns of light and scars and the sounds of heartbeats. The air was thick with excitement and energy, with the fans' need to prove their stories right, the twisted reality they fantasized about coming to life before their eyes as an undeniably beautiful woman flicked her precise gaze over the maid.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Fans paused, wondered if they had an actor among them. The way the woman spoke, soft and anxious, like she lived and breathed to help someone, to stop the pain, made them think of reality. This was reality, and here they didn't fight monsters, they dressed up like them. They didn't shoot guns, wield knives, or kill anything. The very thought that these characters put themselves between a bullet had been what attracted them in the first place, the need to watch another save selflessly when they could only pretend. But this woman, and the two men that stood just behind her, made the fans think of printed words on a page, where the possibilities were endless and hunters walked among them. The threesome looked earnestly at the maid before them and they seemed to care beyond a game and a fifty-dollar _Sizzler's_ gift card.

Their bodies were lined with tension, muscle the fans would probably never accumulate, and a weariness that conjured memories of reading _Supernatural _in bed until they passed out at four in the morning. These people looked like veterans thrown back into war, like soldiers that knew of the horrors in the dark. They looked like hunters.

"I-I think so," the maid said softly, flicking her eyes up and away again as if afraid of eye contact. Her fingers played over the handle of her feather duster nervously as she chewed on her bottom lip. Dean took another step, drawing her gaze up and up and she had a long way to go before she met green-gold eyes that were afraid for her.

"What happened?" he demanded, like an older brother might after his baby sibling ran in crying. His shoulders were back, a leather jacket draped artfully over them, and he wore it so much better than every other guy in the room. They looked like they were impersonating _him, _not the character in whatever book she'd been hired to go along with.

"I saw a ghost!" she divulged sincerely, unwillingly, as if trying to keep a secret and tell the truth all at once. If it were possible, the people pressed in closer and suddenly Dean was suffocating.

"A ghost? Ma'am, can you tell us what she looked like?" A fan demanded in a forced baritone, trying to brand himself a man, closer to the rough and gravelly voices of the characters he knew. Kat's eyes flicked to Dean's for a moment, blue meeting green in a touch of encouragement that lasted lifetimes. The set of her shoulders spoke of exasperation and she was just as tired of these people as he was. They couldn't work like this.

"Leave this to the grownups," Dean requested heatedly, glaring over his shoulder at the spindly man trying to play him, though why anyone would want to kept rising to his mind. He wasn't good, a hero, that knight in shining armor that everyone else could adore. He was dirty, caked in blood and stumbling his way through life, somehow managing to get up every time he was kicked down. The only thing he was good at was finishing a job, and these admirers were inhibiting him.

"A woman," the maid said excitedly, drawing the green-eyed hunter's attention back to her. Sam stood to the left; shooting warning glances at his brother as Dean's jaw tensed. He could see where this was going and it wouldn't end well with his brother's eyes hard, steel reflected in the green and the gold was lost. Kat stood oblivious between them, her eyes intent on the woman before her. "She was wearing a really old fashioned dress, really old, like a schoolmarm or something," the maid ranted, tripping over her words like an eager teenager, grey eyes wide and hoping for some sign of approval.

"Did she say anything to you?" another fan asked in the same forced voice and Kat's eyes flicked back incredulously, wondering how much they really knew about the supernatural. She could count the number of times a ghost had spoken to her on one hand; most them had lost all the little pieces of their minds in the years they'd remained tied to Earth, to this plane of existence. Mostly, it was senseless violence, the occasional phrase repeated over and over again surrounded by a scream that sent your heart racing and the hair on the back of your neck standing up. The twisted imprint, the shadow of a shattered soul left behind in their world was not a game.

"Amateurs," she muttered just loud enough for Dean to hear her. A grin cracked across his features, shattering the tension in his body for a moment long enough to breathe.

"Okay, gather close everybody, for a terrifying tale of _terror._" She egged the players on, drawing the admirers closer, a mischievous tint to her eyes and her voice swimming in mystery and drama. Sam flinched back, agitation surging through his veins and he couldn't take this, he didn't ask for this. His jaw clenched, his eyes rolling in frustration. He brushed past his brother and Kat, who looked frozen somewhere between confusion and anger, like the actress in front of them was mocking their lives. Like she was scorning their burden, polluting their mission. "I saw a ghost _none other_ than the ghost of Leticia Gore herself."

Dean followed quickly, unconsciously reaching out with nimble fingers to tap Kat's shoulder, interrupting patterns of anger-laced thinking and the muted colors from the stain glass window. She jumped, hoping to cover up her reaction to the electricity that emanated from his touch with quick steps towards a still fuming Sam. Dean pretended it didn't mean anything; it was easier to do his job that way. Being uncertain meant tripping over nearness and touches that could save her life, and he didn't need more blood coating the palms of his hands, slipping off his skin and leaving rusty stains behind. He didn't need the weight of another dead body, the image of flames caressing the sky.

Kat moved to Sam's side, flicking her gaze back to the storyteller with fire burning in her eyes. She felt fooled, pushed over the edge of a hoarse scream and a pair of frightened grey eyes. There was no hunt and she was of no use and she was falling through layers of emotional exhaustion and disappointment. She almost growled when she caught Becky weaving her way through the crowd. She didn't want to deal with this, and clearly the brothers were feeling the same.

"Oh, the L.A.R.'s started," Becky cooed excitedly, sliding up to Sam with that same possessive look in her eyes. The tallest hunter swallowed uncomfortably and attempted to slide as far away as possible, his hands twitching with the need to get away.

"W-what is that again?" Dean asked, scrubbing a hand over his eyes in an effort to push back the frustration and the annoyance. It was easier to pretend this was a dream, that he was far away and this was a strange vacation he didn't have to pay for.

"Live Action Role Playing," Becky answered like he was stupid, rolling her eyes at his ignorance. Kat frowned, clearly still swimming in confusion and depths of misunderstanding. "It's a game. The convention puts it on," the girl further explained, passing a sheet of paper to Sam, whose nimble fingers reached for it like it might explode.

"_Dear Sam and Dean_," Sam read, his brow furrowed in an attempt to keep back his frustration, his mounting anger and contempt. They were supposed to be hunting, tracking down the shadows in dreams, the wisps of residual evil that walked between heaven and hell, the things of nightmares. They shouldn't be here, his brother just as pent up as him and Kat about to drop dead from exhaustion. They shouldn't be here. "Dad's Journal: _This hotel is haunted you must hunt down the ghost, interview witnesses, hunt down clues, and find the bones. First one to do so wins a50 dollar gift card to sizzler. Love Dad."_

"You guys are _so _gonna win," Becky cooed.

Xx

Ten leather bound badges flipped out at once, held by stoic faces and pursed lips in cheap rented suits and black ties. The convention manager nodded seriously, holding his clipboard tightly as he recited well-practiced lines with an earnest, grave look in his eyes that communicated the need for help, the need for hunters.

"Yes, agents Lenin and McCartney," he began as the three hunters moved to the sidelines of the scene, watching with a mixture of interest and confusion that transcended their lack of sleep and frustration. Dean shifted back onto his heels, grumbling under his breath about stupid fake names he'd never pick and debated reaching for his gun for the twentieth time that day. "As the manager of this fine establishment, I can assure you that it is indeed…_haunted_."

Kat flinched with the inflection, wrinkling her nose in distaste as the ten Sam and Deans nodded along with grave interest. She fiddled absently with the corner of her jacket, wondering if the brothers felt as out of place as she did, as lost. She was floating on rivers of insanity where two worlds mixed that didn't belong and the overflow was leaving her reeling. She wasn't in this story.

"This building was once an orphanage run by mean old Leticia Gore. One hundred years ago this very night, Miss Gore went insane and butchered four little boys before killing herself." Sam wanted to scoff, but it sounded plausible and he hated that. The convention probably did their research. The tallest of the three weighed his options. The possibility of sneaking out a back door somewhere seemed nonexistent with the way Becky was stalking their every move from across the room.

They were stuck here and for once, it wasn't by some supernatural force. Sam preferred being locked in by a demon, where at least he could battle the creature, push it back, hurt it. In the real world he was helpless and that was something he never got used to. Even at Stanford, there were days he was reaching for the knife tucked securely into his boot before stopping. Everything he'd ever learned, every lesson their father had instilled in him when he was young amounted to nothing. He was lost without the world he hated, without hunting.

"Now folks, the souls of those poor little boys are trapped here while Miss Gore punishes them, to this very day." The actor's voice seemed to fade off mysteriously, sink in the white noise of the background, eight other scenes playing constantly as people rotated, moved on, played through their cases, their lives, like it was a game. Dean clenched his jaw, fisted his hands until his knuckles were white and the effort it took to pull himself back was immense. He would be proud of himself, but he was so damn tired.

Dean was tired of having his chest ripped open and put on display for the public. Tired of being weak and being kicked while he was down. His body hurt, his _soul _hurt. Everything was on fire and drowning and nothing was _right. _He couldn't be _right. _And they would read of Hell, of what he'd done and it would be even worse. Every step he would take, day by agonizing day, would be done knowing that people all over the country knew him without knowing him. That people he'd never seen before, didn't trust, had seen him claw his way out of blackness and darkness and evil and every sin he'd committed.

"That's just about all the community theater I can take," Dean said as lightly as he could, trying to shake of layers of hatred, obscurity that rolled in his soul and wouldn't let him see himself. He looked in the mirror and saw one green eye, one black, saw tan skin and red, a smile and filed-sharp teeth. He didn't know who he was anymore.

"Yeah, this cannot be any weirder," Sam added. His brow seemed to be permanently furrowed, his shoulders tense and his eyes hard, impenetrable.

"Dad said, he said I may have to kill you," a Dean-impersonator said darkly, forcing his voice to be rough, like gravel. He was the same large man who had greeted Dean on their way in, that greased back hair with the perfect curl in the center of his forehead, copy of the amulet necklace hanging loosely on top of a blue cotton shirt encased in a leather jacket.

"Kill me? What the hell does that mean?" the Sam counterpart asked, his voice mimicking his partner's. Kat's eyes flicked to the real brothers, watching their expressions shift from shock to something remarkably close to hurt. She could only assume whatever scene the fans were acting out was fresh in the brothers' memories, a moment that could never leave them.

"I don't know," Fake Dean answered seriously before both of them stalked into another room to continue their hunt.

Dean seemed miles away, sucked under by the months of lies and guilt, the final, hesitant release of knowledge and the fear, God, that fear. The very notion that he would have to end his brother's life, the only reason he still bothered with living that would never leave him. He'd wake from chilling nightmares with Sam's name on his tongue and the need to protect him from himself. To save Sam from their father and the Yellow Eyed Demon and himself and Dean and the world. But Kat couldn't know that from a glance.

The sadness of his green eyes caught her off guard, pulled her back from the assurance that Dean was stronger than her, the impression that he couldn't be knocked down. But he was just as broken as she was and the reality that their two broken souls could have found each other in a lonely bar in the middle of nowhere left her reeling.

They were still standing there, in the middle of the dusky hotel lobby, staring at where two impersonators used to be, the imprints of their conversation etched into their minds. The weight was heavy.

"I need a drink." The three of them spoke as one, not even bothering to share a look as they walked towards the bar in a haze.

Xx

Alex stalked the halls like a predator would, casting quick eyes down the gloomy passages of his fantasies and embracing the darkness that dwelled within the walls. His hand cradled his EMF detector as if it were made of glass, carefully sweeping it before his body with every step. The cardboard and sharpie contraption made no noise, but he didn't need it to. In his mind lights were flaring and he could hear insistent beeping noise that he knew grated on the nerves of the Winchester brothers he'd read so much about. He was a Winchester now.

"Whoa, EMF's blowing up," he commented to himself, a childish lisp coloring his words but he ignored it. Retreating into this false reality helped it slip away; become almost indistinguishable from normal speech. He was in his element.

He flinched violently when Leticia Gore appeared from nowhere, seeming to melt into existence from the very walls. Her pale skin glowed in the dull light, there but not quite, hollow-looking in the eyes like she was empty, that spark of humanity having died long ago. She might have been pretty once.

"Oo, I'm meanol' Leticia Gore! They buried me in the basement," she hissed. Pay dirt. Alex shot, hoping to move quickly onto his next clue; the basement.

"Ouch, you got me," the actress whined, her shoulders slumping.

The illusion shattered; bits and pieces breaking on the floor around him and his posture wilting, his plastic gun hanging loosely by his side. It was too light in his hand, different from the heavy guns his father had let him hold when he was young and crippled with shyness, stuttering over his words.

"Ugh. You're supposed to disappear," he moaned, gesturing to the well-painted actress. Heavy caked-circles beneath her eyes did not diminish the exasperation clouding her face. She was miles from any ghost the Winchesters had faced.

"How'm I supposed to disappear?" she asked rhetorically, watching Alex flounder, struggling to form a response.

Moments later and the real world was fading again as he left the actress behind and slipped fully into his role. The hunt was calling. Alex's face was stoic as he prepared to round another corner. He froze, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, his heartbeats suddenly erratic and quick, like his heart was trying to flee his body. His palms sweating, Alex turned to face the hallway he'd just walked through. A little boy flickered, his body there but not, the edges of him appeared unsteady. He was too pale to be living, bruises under his eyes seemed to swallow everything, nothing but blackness to be seen.

"Help us!" the boy called, his voice echoing off the walls of the hotel and his mind, repeating and rebounding. Alex swallowed, the weight of his phone pressing into his mind, a way to safety. But he didn't move.

"This is…part of the game, right?" he asked shakily, reluctantly, not wanting to know the answer and begging for it to be true all at once. Reality was blending, fading into a blur of colors and his greatest dreams.

"Help us! Ms. Gore won't let us have any fun!" The image flickered like film held in place to long, that high-pitched voice replaying in his head like a haunting melody that Alex would sing for years to come, trying to convince others of its existence. The boy disappeared, neatly pressed clothes and combed hair and all, without even a disturbance of air.

_"Holy mother of crap!"_ Alex was running before he was sure of his movements, his body on automatic, skidding on around corners in a flurry of footfalls that matched his sputtering heartbeats.

He nearly collapsed in the library, hands on his knees and panting, choking on air that didn't want to come to him. Euphoria overcame him and he was alive and he _was _a hunter, just for having seen it. The world he had dreamed of, fantasized about when his life was too overpoweringly standard, was a reality and he was drowning in the new possibilities.

"That. Was. Aw-" the end of his sentence blurred into a strangled scream of shock. Air invaded the space his body once occupied as he was jerked violently into the air. The grip on his ankle was iron, diamond, steel, unbreakable. He was slammed into a bookcase, novels spilling out onto the floor in a barrage of broken backs and loose pages. Pain radiated up his spine, shocking his body into hyper-awareness. He could feel stale air against his face, the smell of old books invading his senses, the jarring spark of nerves set alight by pain.

He was pulled back, dangled in empty air like a useless child's toy, tossed again. His arms rose to cradle his head as skin met glass in a shatter of fragmented pieces. His head spun, agony ricocheting off every point of his body and hitting him again.

"_Naughty, naughty, naughty_," a hoarse voice taunted, and a woman blinked into view. Her high-necked dress fell in rumpled folds around her feet, pitching dust into the room that seemed too real. Her teeth were uneven, yellowing and nearly jagged, the circles beneath her eyes were deeper than any makeup could make them appear. She was dead, and this wasn't the world he imagined, this wasn't what he wanted.

Leticia Gore disappeared and Alex crashed back down to the floor, blood tracing its way down his face like some sick reminder of his wish, his dream. This was reality now, and he was stuck with this weight on his shoulders and suddenly Dean and Sam weren't role models. They were heroes.


	31. Chapter 31

"Make it a double," Dean instructed the bartender, as he watched the waterfall of amber flow into an overly large shot glass, nodding tiredly when it was finally placed in front of him. It was in his hand in another second, and he kicked it back like he'd been doing it his whole life, though three years ago he 'didn't do shots'. The world had changed. He had changed.

He couldn't go back.

Sam was staring at a brown glass bottle, reading the label on his Miller Light like it was the most interesting thing in the world, anything to take his mind off of the convention. Memories played back in his mind like movies, moments when Dean looked at him with that soul-searching protectiveness that made Sam feel special. These days, he didn't deserve to feel special.

Dean didn't look at him with that same burning pride, it had dimmed to almost nothing, layers of pain and disappointment overcoming that brotherly adoration Sam had always counted on. Because Sam had done the irreparable. He'd left his brother, hand outstretched and pleading. He'd turned his back on the only family he'd ever known. He'd gone dark, so dark the inky blackness still clung to his soul no matter how hard he tried to purge it. He couldn't fix this, and he couldn't stand to see Dean look at him like he had failed.

He felt lucky, unwillingly lucky, to have Kat, the perfect distraction from the mistakes that he'd made. She drew Dean's thoughts away from the end of the world and the scattered locks to a cage Sam broke completely. The burning spark in her blue eyes was enough to ease the tension. Dean wouldn't let her see their relationship fracture; he wouldn't allow an audience to their pain. He was too proud, and Sam needed that.

But here, they were stuck staring at each other and their mirrors and all the little broken pieces of themselves. They couldn't do anything about it and not even Kat could distract them from the reality of their wide and yearning audience. He let Lucifer out, and these fans, the ones wandering the hotel dressed as him would see that. They would see the chips in his armor; the rejection of what he knew was right for the sake of vengeance.

They would see him become his father.

Pale fingers tapped the bar top twice,a slim body sinking onto the bar stool beside him. Sam fought to keep the smile from his face when his brother looked up immediately, that same awkward uncertainty of how to proceed coloring Dean's glances, movements. She was the distraction and both men succumbed to it willingly, allowing their attentions to be captured by blue eyes and black hair and scars. It was easier than pushing her away and being left with the same thick tension between them. She was the knife to cut it.

"Can I get an Irish coffee?" she asked quietly, as if speaking too loudly would draw evil down on them. Sam looked up, blinking slowly as her face came into focus, dark circles and quick eyes.

"Coffee and whiskey?" he inquired, his eyes ghosting over her exhausted form. Kat glanced at him, shrugging noncommittally and returned to facing the bartender, not bothering with words. She reminded him of Dean like that. A chipped mug was placed in front of her, a nearly sickening mixture of black coffee and Jack Daniels swirling in the warm ceramic. The place was cheap, and the barman didn't bother with the layer of whip cream and nutmeg the concoction was supposed to contain, but Kat hardly seemed to care. She inhaled, blinking as if just the scent could wake her up, shoot caffeine into her bloodstream while quelling the overwhelming need to drink. This wasn't the first time she'd had the swill. Dean could tell by the way she pressed the mug to her lips and swallowed around the familiarly horrible conflicting tastes. She didn't even wince. It was routine and both brothers could see it.

"Where were you?" Dean asked, the low timbre of his voice drawing her back from wherever she'd gone. She seemed more awake, turning piercing eyes on the two brothers with more light than she'd had all day. The edges of her mouth lifted into a smirk.

"I found a voting booth," she said, pausing to take a sip of her coffee concoction with mischievous eyes. She swallowed, conflicting tastes driving her senses into overdrive, forcing her awake. "For your favorite _Supernatural _character."

"Me, right?" Dean asked without bothering to look up from his empty shot glass, the beginnings of a smirk lighting his face. Sam rolled his eyes and set his bottle on the bar top, leaning forward slightly to get a better look at his brother. That cocky glimmer was in Dean's eyes again, the one he turned on beautiful women in dirty bars and diners all over the country.

"Not telling," she answered calmly, her eyes boring into the murky liquid in her mug as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Sam thought he caught a smile, but it was gone before it could be sure.

"Oh so you don't want to disappoint Samantha, hurt her feelings? That's cool. I get it," Dean said nonchalantly, pursing his lips. He was nodding as if he'd been imparted some secret wisdom and was taking it all in.

"She just doesn't want to shatter your precious ego," Sam quipped easily, taking another long draw from his bottle. Dean chuckled to himself, glancing back down at the bar top, green eyes twinkling, almost, carrying amusement Sam had thought was lost.

"Sammy, one day you'll realize that I'm a hit with all ladies. You're backseat, dude." Dean spoke with assured cockiness, the kind that seeps into his posture and makes him lean on the bar with a confidence Sam normally did not attribute to leaning on a bar in any situation. It seemed inconsequential, but Sam could see a smile in his older brother's eyes and it felt like years since he'd seen that.

"More than just the ladies, or shall I bring up that trucker in Manassas?" Sam asked with a grin threatening to break over his face and shatter the illusion of seriousness. Kat perked up, her head tilting in anticipation of a story, her fingers tracing the lip of the mug distractedly.

Dean said the first thing that came to his mind, the rebuke slipping off his tongue before he could stop it and he was left wide open to a jab. "You're just jealous that I'm the incarnation of sex, man," Dean said flippantly, but he looked green at just the memory. He didn't like to talk about that, and he was too late to stop the comment.

"I'll just give that trucker a call, then. Since you're so confident in your sexual prowess," Sam retorted. Dean cracked a grin despite himself, leaning around Sam to meet Kat's amused eyes. The blue were clouded over with a calm laughter that seemed to seep into her skin and make it glow. The edges of her lips were pulled into a smirk.

"Don't listen to him, sweetheart, my heart belongs to the ladies only," Dean said softly, green-gold eyes trained on blue until she had to look down. Her fingers traced patterns on the white ceramic mug, wondering why she felt so warm beneath his gaze, like it was a physical touch. She looked up again, chewing on her bottom lip while Sam prepared to launch another well-timed insult, deciding it was time to vault herself back into the conversation.

"Actually, I picked-" She was cut off before she could fully form her sentence, her mouth still open, when an urgent voice cut in, his speech swallowed in a lisp that didn't diminish the fear laced in his words.

"Look I'm tellin' you I'm not making this up! She's upstairs, a real, live, _dead_ ghost!"

The hunters were up in an instant, an automatic response they couldn't stop if they wanted to. Their bar stools scraped against cheap flooring, announcing their departure with protest. They were in the next room in another, moments blending together like a tape on fast-forward, all traces of jokes and light hearts eradicated and replaced with armor in their eyes, weapons weighing heavier, their minds focused. Dean was itching for another hunt, needing something to take him away from Alistair, the way his blade slipped into the body like nothing, like air. He needed the rush, the heart-in-his-throat intensity that could knock him off his feet and pull him back from that metal table, half-hidden in shadow, his arms strapped at each edge, a shared memory with a young woman.

A simple hunt was like a drug, anything to take him from memories and the end of the world. Anything to keep him sane.

"I'm sure it was just one of the actors," another man urged, his leather jacket swallowing his thin frame. He stared at his bleeding friend earnestly, watching blood trail its way down Alex's temple, contrast against his pale skin.

"Who beat the crap out of me and then vanished?" Alex nearly screamed, the red smears on his face seemed to shout louder than he ever could. Kat reached them before the other could respond, Dean and Sam just behind her.

"You saw something?" she asked in what she hoped was a comforting voice, one that would draw out every hidden fear and whimper of pain that overtook him when he faced the things of his dreams, his new nightmares. Her eyes were earnest, willing him to open up, to let her take every doubt and panicked breath onto herself, where she could handle it and he could walk free, back straight and free of pain. But the blood tracing its way down his face was too real, the pounding in his head too instilled in his own body to be taken from him. It was a burden all his own, Alex couldn't give this new agonizing truth away. He hated that.

"Look, this isn't part of the game, jerk," Alex spat, not caring who he was talking to, the pale woman in front of him or the two imposing men behind her. His head was ringing, his fingers numb and his heart racing, his speech slurred again, that life-long lisp surfacing again and taking over his words. Embarrassment made his cheeks red, his hands twitch, his eyes flick to the exit. He felt caged in, he needed to get out. These three strong and intense 'hunters' couldn't help him. No one could. "Tim, I'm getting out of here and you should do the same." He stalked away, his shoulder slamming into the pale woman who'd spoke, forcing her back, eyes wide and breathing heavy; she looked like she'd seen a ghost.

"Alex, wait," Tim called, rushing after his friend, sending an apologetic glance back at the three.

Kat stuttered out a breath, drawing Dean's critical eyes as her eyes slipped closed, trying to draw herself back from an edge she didn't know she was near. She'd gotten lost in the security Dean and Sam provided, where a touch didn't seem so bad. Alex's collision with her shoulder had pulled her violently into reality, where she wasn't as fixed as she'd thought. Killing Alistair didn't make her better, didn't heal the scars that were drawn across her body and her soul. She breathed deeply again, drawing in air like it was precious and letting it out again slowly. Her eyes blinked open and she turned to face the brothers like nothing had changed, like her shoulders didn't carry a new tension and her eyes a faraway glaze.

"So what did you think?" she asked, trying to force strength into her voice while the brothers watched her like she had a countdown plastered to her forehead and she was about to explode in a shower of fragile nerves and memories.

"That guy's not a good enough actor to be acting," Sam muttered, watching her jaw set with soft eyes he was used to training on the victims. He was the one she could fall into, the one who could wrap her in layers of comfort she didn't fully understand but wanted. The promise of a brother, a friend, a shoulder to lean on, was like a physical embrace, one she reveled in.

"This is just getting better and better," she muttered, steeling herself for a long night.

Xx

"S'cuse us, mind if we ask you a few questions?" Dean asked smoothly, smiling charmingly at the frustrated looking man behind a dark-wood reception desk. The bald man looked fed up with leather jackets and permanently furrowed brows and deep voices that sounded like a throaty engine.

"Look, I don't have time to play Star Wars with you guys, why don't you ask the guy in the ascot?" the manager muttered bitterly, his bored eyes trained on a thick check-in book, his fingers running across the many scribbled signatures inked into the yellow paper. His gold-plated nametag read S. Brighton, and his tired eyes spoke of too many hours spent trying to accommodate forty-five obsessive-compulsive fantasy nerds.

Kat rolled her eyes and slid a twenty across the countertop, her pale hand standing out against the dark wood. Soft, uncallused fingers met her's as the hotel manager took the twenty and slipped it into his jacket pocket with an almost conflicted smile. The seriousness with which the three fanatics stared at him was almost frightening, but he'd never turn down cash, or the soft curves of dusky lips after a long night. "We want to talk to _you_, Mr. Brighton," the woman whispered, a soft smirk on her dusky lips.

"Okay you guys are really into this," he muttered, swallowing shallowly, his pale eyes flicking between her and the two men flanking her, trying to discern her relationship to both handsome men. Sam smiled, all tight lips and grim eyes, and tried to pretend like he was a fan of himself, like he read his own words over and over again until trivial memories were his new hymn book, his Bible. It was harder than he thought, as his thoughts tripped over memories of falling, slipping, losing grip on reality and _good _for long enough to make him hate himself.

Sam's eyes were turned inward, a dull fire that the manager couldn't begin to understand. "You have no idea," he answered stiffly, wishing he could be away from here already, and shake off the shadows of his recent past.

Dean was on his other side, shooting looks the younger brother couldn't decipher at the woman between them, watching Brighton like he was prey. He wondered if Brighton felt heat beneath that gaze, if his blood was boiling and his heart was racing and his mind was tumbling down paths drenched in sin and tangled bed sheets and sweat. Dean placed a possessive hand on Kat's shoulder, trying not to enjoy the press of leather against his callused palm. She tensed, then seemed to melt into his touch, a soft sigh spilling from her lips, and he told himself that she felt safer, now that Brighton's eyes had narrowed, and his swallow wasn't as shallow as before.

"What do you want to know?" Brighton asked, his palms flat against the counter and his muscles tensing and relaxing rhythmically as if with his breathing.

"Well, Mr. Brighton-" Kat started politely, her blue eyes flicking in confusion to Dean, wondering when he would move his hand. She'd thought it was meant to be a mark of camaraderie, a silent affirmation of her earlier doubts. She'd thought it was made to make her feel like she belonged. But his hand stayed and her mind raced.

"Sean," the manager corrected with a charming smile; she nodded blankly in response.

"What they're sayin', bout the place being haunted by Leticia Gore, any truth to that?" Sam asked, cutting through the awkward tension Kat didn't seem to be feeling, as Dean's body tensed and Brighton's eyes sparkled. The manager drew his eyes from the oblivious woman to the taller of the two men.

"We generally don't like to publicize this to _normal_ people," he said with an almost comical inflection. Sam smiled hollowly; the man had no idea. "But, yeah. In 1909 this place was called Gore Orphanage. Ms. Gore killed four boys with a butcher knife, then offed herself." This didn't seem to be particularly disturbing to Brighton, as his eyes shifted and trained on a confused Kat. She wondered how people could become so conditioned, so disillusioned from their own humanity that a slaughter of this kind doesn't draw a response, a wince, a curl of hands into fists, any feeling at all. She didn't like Brighton; he looked too content with the massacre that had occurred within his walls.

"And is tonight really the anniversary?" Dean asked, nearly glaring at smirking hotel manager, his fingers tightening almost painfully on Kat's shoulder, until her teeth were clenched to hold back a wince.

"Yep. Guess your convention folks want authenticity," he answered with a cheerful spark in his eyes. He wasn't talking to Dean, but Kat didn't seem to notice that his attentions were fixed on her. Not many pretty women came through their tiny, tired town, even less that stayed in the dilapidated hotel Brighton managed. Even fewer were as striking as the woman in front of him, all pale skin and shocking blue eyes and messy wind-tangled tresses that fell in black waves around her heart-shaped face. Just a glance and she was unimpressive, a longer look and she was porcelain china in a room of plastic sporks. Straight from the forties, it seemed, rough on the edges and incredibly delicate looking, like she could shatter. Brighton always liked girls like that, ones he felt like he could protect.

"There been any sightings?" Sam asked, already knowing the answer but needing to say something to fill the awkward, dead silence.

"Yeah over the years. A few maids have quit, saying they heard the boys or saw them. A janitor even saw Ms. Gore once," Brighton replied easily, leaning even further over the desk.

"Where did she do it?" Kat asked, her body tense beneath Dean's hand, her head twitching backwards almost imperceptibly. Brighton had terrible breath, she would tell that to Sam and Dean later and they would pretend to believe her, but the closer the manager got to her, the more her eyes stoned over, walls rising behind her gaze in a way Dean memorized and would later try to copy. His father always told him he could read his eyes too easily, all the emotion flooding through without any barrier. He was an open book, she was locked and hidden away on a top shelf where no one would pick her up and start reading. When he asked, an immeasurable amount of time later, she would tell him that's what she thought death was like, being an unread book, lonely and untouched until someone bothered to remember you. She knew that, she would say, because she'd never met a ghost that wasn't remembered by someone.

"Look, I don't need you guys traipsing all over the place-" Brighton stopped suddenly as she leaned forward, their noses only an inch apart and Dean's hand slipped from her shoulder. Even encased in leather, he could see her muscles knotted, tense, everything about her was uncomfortable. She wanted to be an unread book again, the one no one saw, the one that sat untouched on a high shelf beneath a thick layer of dust.

"Please," she whispered, her voice hushed, but Dean could hear the frustration.

"Well, I could _show _you," Brighton tried, a smirk coloring the edges of his lips and his eyes seemed to burn through the small, almost nonexistent space between them. Kat recoiled, on instinct, having nothing more to explain the advances of men than base, animal instincts finely honed through years of torture. Interest meant pain, sex: defilement. So she recoiled, her eyes dilated in horror, her hands moving to her waistband faster than even she could keep up with.

Dean caught her shoulder again, pulled her back from the brink, and she tried to smile. It seemed weak and fragile, and Sam wondered if she would run away or drop, crumple at the waist and retreat into fragments of a broken psyche she had glued back together with the false hope that one day she would be normal. That finally killing the demon in the shadows would make that binding unbreakable. But it didn't.

Sam wished he could help her.

Dean was thinking about when she laughed in Bobby's kitchen, spilling beer around her and sinking to the floor with her eyes closed and her head tipped back. He hadn't seen a person so free, so let go and unrestrained, a moment for the child she should have been. Just a glimmer, a shadow of a shadow that had spilled onto the tiles.

"_Please_." she was begging, hating herself and it just slipped out. Dean was holding her but she was a million miles away and Alistair was standing over her with his black eyes and agonizing touches guised as gentle brushes over her skin. She was far and away and she didn't think she was coming back.

Sean Brighton wasn't sure what he was seeing, the dazed, almost drugged look in her eyes was not frightening so much as off-putting. She wasn't there, and he wasn't willing to go anywhere with more baggage, he'd had enough of that at the hotel. The harder he looked, the more he saw, layers of panic he couldn't tap or understand, too far gone to pull back.

"The attic," he said finally, slowly, unwillingly, as if the words were thick on his tongue. She didn't seem to see him, as the green-eyed man pulled her close to his side and steered her away, the tallest following with his face crumpled into concern.

Every step took Kat further from the past, as she went about reining in all the little pieces of her that had torn away in the process of remembering. She used to fear that she wouldn't remember some pieces, that they would get lost in that vast all, the library that encompassed everything. She used to sit up at night sure that some important piece, something that made her human, had been left behind in some dusty corner, and she would be forever empty in a place. She didn't think about that so much now; she'd lost so much it seemed only natural to continue to lose things. She barely even blinked.

She could feel their eyes on her, two people that cared, something she hadn't even considered. Kat wanted to be sealed shut and cut off and safe, but they were prying her open, page by stiff page.

"Doesn't just go away," she said softly, her eyes flicking up to the both of them, wondering why she was being honest, why she didn't just keep the book shut. "I'd kind of hoped…" she trailed off. She didn't need to say anymore. Dean pulled his hand away, letting it hang uselessly at his side as she turned away from him and headed for the stairs.

He was still thinking of laughter, and the way her hair had fallen in her eyes and her legs had sprawled out in front of her like a doll's. He was thinking of the way the sunlight played across her face like it was meeting her skin for the first time. Dean wondered if she'd ever get that again, where she could laugh until it echoed and tears ran from her eyes and she couldn't breathe. He wished she would.


	32. Chapter 32

**I know it's been forever, but I had writers block and terrible excuses to not write this. Thank you so so much to everyone who's been reading and please don't forget to review.**

**-Han**

The attic was midnight drenched in dust, suffocated beneath years of untouched memories and illuminated by the soft blue light that filtered in from the slats in the boarded windows, casting deformed shadows on the walls. The small hole in the wall that served as a crawl space made even Kat inch through on her hands and knees, and for a frightening second, she was sure Sam would get stuck.

But they stood straight again moments later, the heavy air sinking almost sweetly into their skin, pushing them down with heat and the promise of a hunt, a real hunt. Their flashlights cut through the gloom with a strange precision, one that put the shadows into frightening clarity, shadows that moved as the hunters did, warping and shifting into shapes Kat couldn't read. She didn't want to think about what they could mean.

The red lights flashed and a shrill whine screamed through the air with every step they took; the small black box was heavy in her hand. Her breathing was finally growing steady again, her mind dutifully going about the tiring process of shutting away the pain, of making herself untouchable. Unbreakable to the point of inhuman, and her face betrayed no reaction as the shadows danced and the air grew cold.

"EMF's goin' nuts," Sam said softly, watching the spiking red lights with clinical interest. He moved carefully, each movement planned a thousand steps ahead as he bathed the room in the familiar brightness of artificial light. He wondered if he'd grow too used to it one day; if he'd end up staring at the sun like it was foreign when he finally pried his eyes open to a blue sky.

"Great," Dean groaned, his head falling back in exasperation. "We've got a real ghost and a bunch of dudes pretending to be us poking at it." His own flashlight dipped, an arch of light spanning the room and Kat followed the movement with quick, almost anxious eyes. She cringed when Dean spoke, willing him to be silent, wondering with half a mind how he had managed to stay alive so long, spending most of his years tempting fate with a devil-may-care smirk and a voice the consistency of gravel that begged for attention.

"No way this ends well," Sam mused, his voice a hush compared to his brother's. Sam was in his element. His face was free of crumpled apprehension; the line of his shoulders was relaxed. Sam was used to Dean's rambles, the border-line monologue that accompanied hunts and the way he passed off that innate, base fear as bravado.

"You know what? Serves them right," Dean sniped, his voice colored with more malice than Kat had ever really heard. She turned to him quickly, flashlight illuminating their dirt-caked boots, and Dean thought her eyes looked grey.

"Dean," she whispered, a hand hovering over his chest, not quite touching. "They just want a hero; you can't fault them for that, even if it hurts."

Her words barely registered before he was breaking into a fit of laughter that edged up against hysteria, his head thrown back and shoulders shaking because he was _not _a hero. Not even close. The fact that she thought so was almost as sad as it was hilarious. He honestly thought she was smarter than that. Smart enough to see how twisted and shattered he was; how the fragments of his soul tried over and over again to fit together but were never able to. There were too many missing pieces.

And the attic was too hot and too dark and the air was choked in dust and Dean laughed until he couldn't see straight, wondering how it was possible for him to get what he wanted for Kat and for her to look so sad. It felt like he was stealing something that belonged to her.

"_My mommy loves me_."

Laughter stopped, choked in his chest and it tasted like fear. Eyes fell on a corner, and somehow, Dean managed to keep his hold on the flashlight. He'd always hated creepy kids, something about the dead innocence he could still read in their eyes, the way they stopped being human too soon.

"_I said my mommy loves me!_"

The little boy was folded in on himself, rocking back and forth with his fingers laced over his head, like he was trying to hide himself away and hold himself together. His eyes were empty, endless and tinged with something Kat wished she didn't understand, haunted and desperate.

"I know she does," she whispered, stepping forward slowly, her eyes more open than Dean could ever recall seeing, blue that sliced through to a soul. She almost reached out, ready to brush her fingertips over the boy's cheek and draw his gaze away from the floor, up to her where maybe he could find solace.

"_My mommy loves me _this much_,"_ he whispered, bringing trembling hands away from the crown of his head. The sight that greeted them seemed to smile, grin with the flecks of white skull that could be seen through the blood and exposed meat.

Kat stumbled back; flashing on images of sewing herself back together, a thread between her teeth, and the way muscle and open skin looked to young eyes. The boy flickered and went out, like a candle, little hands still held out in front of him, trying to encompass how much his mother cared about him, and Kat wished it was with the entire world.

Xx

Dean was staring at the ceiling, resolutely refusing to look back down after a blonde woman dressed in a strategically blackened white nightie with a chillingly realistic bloodstain on the midsection passed by. Twisted versions of himself he could handle, and he had managed to swallow the garish imitations of his brother and his father and every monster they'd ever faced, but he was _not _about to go _there. _

Mary was supposed to be off limits.

When Kat had met his eyes, blue catching green, and her hand had reached out to brush against his shoulder, he'd jerked away, leaving her fingers grasping at air, and turned his eyes up and away. He didn't want to look back down. He wouldn't look back down.

Kat's hand brushed against his, fingers lacing, holding on too tightly, like she was afraid he would yank his hand away. Her hand was an array of calluses, little scars and scratches that didn't quite match the slimness of her fingers, the softness of the undamaged skin. He didn't mind them, but she wouldn't make him look down, away from the safety of the nothingness above him.

Dean looked down.

Her eyes were on the ground, a faint flush coloring her cheeks. Dean could see her gnawing on her lower lip, nervousness lined in her shoulders. He didn't think she was breathing. He almost smiled, and allowed her to give him the only comfort she could, lacking the whispered words or the 'understanding' or anything else that wouldn't help him.

Kat had seen exactly one picture of Mary; the one John carried around with him everywhere, left by his nightstand and stared at with desperate eyes when he thought no one was looking. The edges had been worn down through years of careful touches that didn't want to let go, didn't want to forget the shape of a face and the color of eyes.

So she knew, and when Dean stiffened, green eyes a mirror to his mother's and blown wide with shock and fear, she reached out. She didn't know why, didn't question it. Just looked down and pretended like her heart wasn't beating so fast, like she could still breathe, as her fingers twined with his.

Dean didn't pull away, but she couldn't bring herself to look up, busy trying to push back all the little memories that slipped through the cracks of her armor. It felt like fate was trying to keep things even, push the balance back. Dean and Sam were being forced to live the past better left behind, crude imitations of their mistakes and their fears and their agony shoved back at them until they were off balance. The least she could do was suffer alongside them. Get a taste of her own past, her own memory.

"You shouldn't have to see this," Dean muttered, looking back at the ceiling like the cracks were the most interesting things he'd seen in years. He felt like a boy again, the first time he'd ever held a girl's hand in elementary school, and he looked at the sky and she looked at the ground and the blush across the little girl's cheek was one of the prettiest things he'd ever seen. This was different, but the blush across Kat's cheek was just as pretty, just as strangely endearing.

"Don't worry," she answered, her grip tightening on his hand. "If you look past how desperate these people seem, it's kind of funny."

"I didn't know you _had _a sense of humor," Dean said with a half-smile, daring a glance down at her face. Her blush had almost faded, the soft, rosy color slipping back into a porcelain cream, and when she looked up at him, dusky lips pulled back into a smile that showed the beginnings of white teeth. Dean's smirk spread into a grin in response, and he felt just a bit lighter for it.

"So that was the guy with the county historical society." Sam's voice echoed through their heads and hands separated, the feel of skin lingering, the hum of electricity threading across nerves. If Sam noticed, he didn't say anything, only slipped his cell phone back into his pocket and walked closer to the two hunters.

"And?" Dean said too quickly, rushing to cover the cracks. Kat seeing past his armor was one thing, one that wormed its way into his chest and made an uncomfortable warmth burrow there and fester, but Sam, Sam wasn't allowed to know Dean was vulnerable. Dean was supposed to be the infallible big brother, the strong, brave one who Sam could rely on, and the years seemed to be devoted to wearing that away. Dean was left to grasp at straws, the last little whispers of the strength he used to have, the mask he used to have in perfect place, just over his eyes.

"Not only did Gore butcher four boys, but one of them was her son," Sam answered, his eyes colored with a disgust that seemed to transcend just a hunt, just another case. Maybe it was the honesty in the boy's eyes upstairs, the fear embedded in his desperation, the need for his mother to love him. Sam had felt that before, sat curled beneath the blankets with a flashlight, staring down at Mary's picture and wondering if he was the type of person his mother could be proud of. He hoped he was.

But he didn't think so.

"Her son?" Dean asked, mouth dry and suddenly aching for Kat's hand to be back in his, restraining him, holding him back from the abyss inside of himself devoted to the few things that really made his skin crawl: wife-beaters and kid-killers and the way mothers didn't love their sons. That made him scared.

It was the one thing Dean told himself he could always rely on. Mary had loved him. And he wanted everyone to have that same assurance, had whispered it into Sammy's shaggy hair when the boy was only three, and had prayed (back when Dean still did foolish things like praying) that every child got to have what he had gotten his taste of: a mother's love.

"Yeah," Sam muttered, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "According to the police at the time, she scalped the poor kid."

"Why do I always land the sick cases?" Kat asked herself, a muttered curse following her words as she ran her hands over her arms, trying to give herself warmth, trying to take her mind off the desperate way the boy upstairs had looked at her.

"Alright that's it; I'm gonna deep fry this bitch extra crispy," Dean swore to himself, a snarl curling the corners of his lips and making him look feral, like a wild animal. "Where is she buried?"

"He doesn't know," Sam answered in frustration, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

"Check it out, there's the orphanage, carriage house, and the cemetery." The voice was familiar, that same forced roughness that strained a voice and made Dean cringe. The hunters turned as one, minds already racing to the look of a skeleton half-buried in black dirt and the smell of decay, the way lighter fluid splashed against the yellow bones and caught a flame. The way fire devoured.

Dean recognized the man as the same 'Dean' who greeted them earlier, large with a smile too big and too real for the man he was playing. He was bent over yellow parchment, thoughtfully tracing abstract patterns across the paper, the greasy curls across his forehead sticking to his skin. The man across from him was birdlike, long pointed nose and beady eyes, too thin and rubbing a hand over his jaw in contemplation.

"You think that's where Leticia's planted?" He asked, his voice the same rough gravel, rocks sliding over his vocal chords, tearing up the insides. The sound of it made Kat imagine blood coating a raw throat, one weak and unusable for days, death rattle coughs and desperate prayers choked out through dry sobs. The sound of men screaming for salvation, chained at each limb. But no, just two men dressing as hunters, inspecting ancient looking paper with determined eyes.

Sam was already walking, brow crumpled in sharply focused attention, his hand reaching out, the pads of his fingers brushing over the edge of smooth, aged paper. The two men at the table pulled back with matching startled yelps, jerking the map towards them on reflex.

"Hey, you mind?" and that voice was pitched, whiny and high and threading through the smoke-heavy air in the bar until it reached the hunters. Sam didn't appear to notice, only looked back to a wary Dean and Kat, both keeping their distance from the obviously affronted pair of LARPers.

"That's real," Sam managed to say casually, as his mind raced to find an answer, a reason why these two would have it, calculating variables, stumbling to find a clear-cut path that would keep them out of harm's way. "Century old at least. And he's right, there is a cemetery on the grounds."

"Where did you get this?" Kat and Dean spoke together, that same sharp, in-sync harshness in their voices that usually only happened when Sam and Dean got a lead, found the right track together, minds flowing seamlessly from one thought to another between them. But this was Kat, and she was different, and Dean didn't want to think about what that could mean, what that said about him, as he tensed and pressed his lips into a firm line and didn't regret it as much as he thought he should.

"It's called a game, pal," the larger man answered haughtily, fake voice firmly in place, it's low tones swimming in the air around them, a sudden switch that left Kat reeling. "It ain't called charity." Kat thought that sounded like something Dean would say.

"_Yeah_, alright," Dean said, his eyes narrowed on the copy of his talisman dangling from the man's neck like a stark reminder of the days that were long gone, before Angels and God and the Apocalypse. His patience was wearing thin, and the petulant gleam in the civilian's eyes ground against his nerves, spat in his face, and made him hate the way he looked at people. Made him hate the familiar spark of defiance he wore so well. "Gimme the map, chuckles," he ordered, past asking nicely and playing the game.

"Well you're the chuckles, chuckles," Fake Dean bit back, rising from his seat to face Dean, staring up into green eyes. "Besides, Dean don't listen to _nobody_."

"_Dean_, cool it!" Fake Sam warned, standing to tower over his partner.

It was a pale imitation of Sam on the edge, what should have sounded like a thinly veiled threat the flavor of gun smoke and tension, but was watery on the edges, weak-sounding and hesitant in a way only Dean could hear. It wasn't Sam. Not even close.

Dean was reaching for the gun tucked into his waistband before he realized it, fingers brushing against the grip and taking hold, pulling up the tail of his shirt to reveal the tan slope of his back, defined muscles and the silver-white of his weapon.

"_Dean_."

Sam. That voice was Sam and the way it bled into Dean's senses meant something… enough for him to slip the gun back into his waist band and turn to stare at his younger brother, falling out of fury and into the hollow shell of annoyance.

"What? They're freakin' annoying," he snapped, green eyes blazing and searching out the hazel of his younger brother. He found it, and something inside of him relaxed, like the first breath after your head breaks the surface of a dark lake. Like the way his first heartbeat after Hell echoed in his chest and liberated his soul.

Kat watched Dean's eyes spark with something she didn't understand, a kind of fire that transcended the average person and went to the heart of something bigger. She didn't know people could be that close with just a look, just the sound of a name. She guessed that Dean was trying to get back all the little pieces of his brother, the ones he'd lost over years of mistakes and hardships.

"Look," she said quietly, meeting Fake Dean's gaze with what she hoped were earnest eyes. "We all want to find the bones, but wouldn't it go faster if we worked together?" She'd taken a half-step forward, bringing her just in front of a palpable tension that hovered between the two hunters. "You can even keep the Sizzler's gift card."

The two civilians glanced at each other, sharing searching looks that almost reminded her of Sam and Dean, speaking without words and gazes that meant more than voices could actualize. Almost.

"And we get to be Sam and Dean," Fake Dean said finally, folding his beefy arms over his chest and swelling with smugness.

"Fine," Dean muttered, clipped and short. The sooner they could finish, the sooner they could leave. But it wouldn't be soon enough.

Xx

The darkness was consuming, but it was what the hunters knew best, and their steps were confident as they entered the expansive woods at the back of the inn. Their boots crunched against the gravel as they followed the path towards the white headstones, their way lit by the pale-blue light of the moon. Damien and Barney led the way, bantering from the pages of the Winchesters' lives in the night, lines memorized and spat back with the perfect ire, sadness, pain.

Their words, his words, Sam's words, crashed over his senses in a cacophony of agony for the moments lost, the past dredged back into the sunlight and the hunt where Sam had cut him to the bone, Dr. Elicott bouncing around the walls of the younger man's brain but speaking with such crushing clarity, such lucid hatred.

Kat brushed against Dean's side, a clearly intentional side-swipe that left him warm. She didn't look his way, only stared up at the sky like she was trying to decipher the weak expression of stars that managed to make it past the pollution of human light. A duffel bag hung from the tips of her fingers, shovels and lighter fluid inside. She was calm, at ease.

She didn't know about those first few hunts, just after Dean had torn Sam away from his life at University and thrown him back into the darkness, the night, hunting. She didn't know how much Sam resented him, how obvious it was, and how hard Dean had tried to ignore it, bury it, throw it away and pretend it never existed.

But.

"I mean, why are we even here, Dean? So you can just follow in dad's footsteps like a good little soldier?" Barney asked cynically, and Dean could picture Sam staring him down, a gun shoved in his face and the way Sam, possessed and Not Himself, had sounded so truthful.

"This isn't you talking, Sam," Damien responded, but his voice was too full of bravado. It didn't crack the way Dean's had.

"See that's the difference between you and me. I got a mind of my own. I'm not pathetic," Barney hissed, but his eyes were too warm and his shoulders were too lax and at ease.

"The sky's beautiful tonight," Kat said, cutting smoothly into the scripted dialogue, not bothering to look down. She could feel the tension between the brothers, the pain just beneath the surface, pushed down day after day, year after year, for the sake of the other.

"That's great, Ellen. Keep it down," Damien sniped, rolling his eyes as he struggled to find his place again.

Kat ignored him, brushing against Dean's shoulder again, their leather jackets sliding smoothly against each other. "You okay?" Her voice was hushed; barely a whisper in the wind, but Dean and Sam heard her clearly.

Dean's lips thinned, the look in his eyes haunting and consuming, memories that kept him up at night playing before his eyes. Sam stood beside him, back straight and eyes straight ahead, trying not to fall back into the guilt that followed him like a shadow.

"Why the hell would normal, functioning people do this?" Dean asked suddenly, breaking the tense silence between the three of them. Damien and Barney paused, looking back for a moment in confusion. "It's not fun, it's not entertaining. It's a river of crap that would send most people _howling_ to the nuthouse."

His voice was rising, pain laced in each word and this was his _life. _And damn it all if this didn't hurt. If this didn't make him feel like he was bleeding, like these jackasses were laughing at the pooling blood around his heart.

"And all that pain is for amusement?" He swallowed, remembering the distance, just another man dressed up like a character because Dean Winchester wasn't real. His momma didn't really die when he was four and he never had to watch his baby brother grow away from him. He was only alive in the pages of a book. "Do you think they like being treated like circus freaks?"

"I don't think they care. Because they're _fictional characters_," Damien said seriously, brow crumpled and words hesitant, like he was talking down a jumper. Approaching a wild animal.

"They care," Kat whispered, watching Dean's face flit from fury to agony, eyes too expressive; he'd lost his mask somewhere along the way. He was barren, open to the world and its taunts. "They care a lot."

Something in Dean snapped, a vicious break in the center of his chest as he pushed past the two fans and tried to focus on the hunt, leaving the shadows and pain and the shattered memories behind him. Sam watched him go with his own demons crawling up the back of his throat, reminding him of all the times he'd made his brother look like that, like he was trying so hard to hold on but was slipping, falling.

Damien and Barney were still staring at him, shock and wary anxiety playing across their faces in the same way so many victims had, when faced with what they didn't understand. Fear would come next, and they would watch Sam and his brother like they were serial killers, waiting for their new prey.

"He, uh, he takes the story really seriously," Sam said lamely. Kat snorted, moving towards the cemetery again, brushing off the incident like it didn't happen. He didn't think she thought less of them, after seeing so far. Her eyes were still kind and a sad smile colored her lips. She was still standing there, trusting him and his brother.

He could take that.

Xx

"Got the four boys," Dean called out, his voice calm again, focused. He forced himself to have tunnel vision, only allowing the job to be in his line of sight, pushing back everything else. Kat stood beside him, the duffel slung over her shoulder and her flashlight held loosely in one hand. The other itched for her sawed off, but she held herself back.

Dean didn't know why she was still there, standing calmly beside him as if there was no place else she would rather be. In his experience, there was always a better option, always someplace else. Someone. He wasn't the first choice, the best option. He was left behind.

"Here's Leticia Gore," Sam answered, crouched down a few yards away, reading the crumbling name with quick eyes. The hunters stood again, moving quickly to Sam's side while Barney and Damien combed through the tangled remains of the graveyard, side-stepping the weeds and vines that had overtaken the resting place.

"We're lookin' for bones, genius," Damien said hotly, sweeping his flashlight across the ground in large arcs. "They've gotta be around here somewhere."

"Bones are generally in the ground," Dean said tersely, already reaching for the duffel, pulling out a shovel and hoping absently that he wouldn't get blisters. Last time had been a bitch.

"Yeah I know that but, wait," Damien paused, and his voice cracked, losing the coarse edge he'd been carrying and falling back into higher pitches and unthreatening tones. "Hold on. Are you guys serious?" He took a step back, hands rising up in surrender. Sam nodded to himself; this was about the right time for them to start freaking out. He just hoped they wouldn't call the police. He really didn't need any more cause for a headache tonight.

"Deadly," Dean hissed, eyes narrowed.

Silence passed between them for a moment as Kat and Sam emptied the duffel, placing salt and lighter fluid to the right and pulling free other shovels. Dean could see the flash of fear across the two civilian's eyes, another step back. He hoped they ran.

"We're not really digging up graves you guys; we're just playing the game," Barney muttered nervously, looking frail despite his imposing height. His eyes flicked between the three of them, settling on Kat for a moment, pleading silently with her. For this to be a joke.

"You want to win the game, don't you?" She asked softly, standing to meet his eyes better. She forced her body to relax, each piece of tension leaving her until she looked at home. "Trust us."

Dirt flung from the earth was a melody the hunters knew all too well, the staccato beat of the landing, a thousand little pieces of the ground, unfit protection for the waking dead, the souls who wandered. They moved on automatic, switching out every twenty minutes or so until all three of them were soaked in sweat and thick mud, breathing heavily as they worked. Dean's jacket was slung over the headstone, and Kat could see his shoulders tensing and relaxing with the almost therapeutic motions. This was easy. This was what he needed.

But the two civilians were stock-still, watching the slowly deepening hole with trepidation and anxiety. She tried to smile at them, but it tasted like a tired grimace on her lips.

"So, you guys believe in ghosts?" she asked, trying for casual and hitting serious. They're whole world was about to come crumbling down, one way or the other.

"No," Damien answered automatically, eyes scanning the graveyard nervously, as if the shadows were about to drag him into their realm. She always thought the ones who didn't believe were the most afraid in times like these. Maybe that said something about the human consciousness, and the way we come to fear things like darkness and the unknown. But she didn't know what.

But Barney nodded his head, his thin face alive with certainty and truth. "Yeah, I've always believed in ghosts." She raised brow, as if to ask why, and he continued. "I mean, I have a really mundane life, you know. I've always liked to think there was _something _fantastic about the world, something no one can really explain."

A thud, like a crack of thunder, stopped Kat from answering, and she stood at attention again. Sam was by her side in another instant, jaw set and shoulders tense. Dean opened the casket with a frightening efficiency. The intimate relationship he had with graves made his movements assured and professional, but some days he still remembered being on the other side. Memories swam in his mind, of pushing and breaking and finally, finally, reaching the air.

The grinning remains of Leticia Gore stared back at him, yawning emptiness in the place of eyes and the decaying skin and hair clinging to the yellow bones. Skeletal arms were folded over her chest, as if to hug herself against the cold. The hunters' eyes roamed over the frayed remnants of her dress and the cavern of her nose, the sallow, cracked fissures in the remnants of papery skin.

"That is not a plastic skeleton," Damien babbled, hands shaking and stumbling backwards, eyes wide. "That's a _skeleton_skeleton."

"_You just dug up a real grave!" _Barney screamed, his gaze rapt on the corpse, his body thrumming with an energy he didn't know he had; hysteria was taking over. His heart was beating too fast, it felt like it would explode, tear out of his chest and leave him as dead as the woman in the grave.

"Yeah," Dean said distractedly, not bothering to look at the two citizens as he hauled himself from the hole, dusting himself off absentmindedly.

"You guys are _nuts!_" Damien screeched, horror written across his face as Sam palmed the container of salt. He looked up, an eyebrow quirked and a dry, humorless smirk twisting his lips.

"I thought you wanted to be real hunters?" he asked, feigning innocence. He was tired of this, tired of the people, and tired of this night. The hunt was easy, monotonous and simple and it was what he needed, no matter how much he claimed to hate it. It was a part of him not easily erased.

"You guys have lost your-" Damien cut off abruptly, thrown back against a headstone a few feet away and for a terrible, endless moment, there was nothing beneath his body, it was enveloped by night and the shadow of a touch that had pushed him. He coughed, struggling to regain the air that was pushed from his lungs and staggering to a stand.

"_Naughty, naughty, naughty!"_

Leticia Gore grinned down at him, as Barney scrambled to reach his fallen friend, and her smile was a twisted, hollow reproduction of human emotion. It was animal, feral, evil. The air around them had turned cold, breathing out clouds of steam, like smoke curling from the end of a cigarette. Damien's skin felt tight around his chest, like someone was pushing against it and stretching it taut, just above his heart.

Salt coated the bones, slipping into the cracks and spaces where nothing was left. Lighter fluid followed, splashing and sloshing through the body, the corpse, the skeleton, coating it in a stale yellow that seeped into aged bones. Matches lit, a fire caught.

Damien watched Gore freeze, heard her scream so loud it seemed to come from everywhere, even inside his own head. Maybe his voice had joined hers as the spectral image flickered, like film held in place too long and burned away, fire catching nothing and everything and she was gone.

He had been screaming, so had Barney. They didn't stop, not even bothering to breathe.

Kat watched them with sympathy, Sam and Dean with hollow understanding, the matchbox held in Dean's slack fingers. The darkness swallowed their screams until nothing was left but the panting, dry-heaving aftermath, the scramble to empty their dinner behind the nearest headstone, the choking sound of desperation and fear.

Damien wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his leather jacket, the one he had envisioned Dean to wear, a perfect copy of the description. Dean, the hunter, the brother, the _fictional character_. But what he just saw wasn't fiction. Reality and dreams were blending, pushing into each other and swirling until he didn't know which way was up. Barney was no better, leaning on him slightly, his face sallow and empty.

Dean watched them stand shakily with grim patience. When he was young, young enough to still be in little league, he'd felt what they had. He'd been sick over the back of a grave, been shaky and scared and in denial. But those days were gone and life didn't wait for you to understand it.

Damien and Barney had to see that past the veil, there were monsters. The ones who crossed it- him, his brother, Kat, Bobby- those people were not the same. Those people were soldiers. These fans weren't, and imitating it was agonizing, painful, twisted and wrong. The things hunters saw, what they had been through, it wasn't for the amusement of people like this, who were barely standing, watching their carefully built world come crumbling down. Maybe they would understand the horror and stop chasing after it with wide grins and reproductions of his necklace.

He carded a hand through his hair, smearing dirt across his forehead, and tried to smile, but it came out sardonic and empty. The two men watched him with quaking fear, earlier bravado stripped away. They weren't the characters, just themselves.

"Real enough for you?"


	33. Chapter 33

Whiskey was a waterfall of dreamless sleep, whispered dirges in the dark and the fumbled prayer of a man who'd seen too much today, and wanted to forget all the twisted things that will forever dig into the walls of his mind, scratch just beneath the skin.

Damien's fingers against the shot glass were numb. He didn't feel the smooth glass, the splash of amber liquid as it spilled over the sides in his shaky grip. He knocked it back, gagging around the burn, remembering the way a woman who wasn't there twisted and crisped on the edges, curling inwards like paper set alight.

"That was…really, _really_," Barney said shakily, breaking the silence with nothing to say. Damien nodded along in agreement; _really _was the only way to describe it. Everything else was too close to a home he'd curled up around, the pages stiff between his fingers, reading light casting shadows on the walls. He used to pretend, in a corner of his mind, that those shadows were the monsters in the dark, the ones that had escaped through cracks in the surface of reality and he had to fight them back with the sheer force of his will.

He didn't think he would pretend anymore.

Or read _Supernatural_.

Or breathe the same.

"Awful, right? Exactly," Dean said with a faux brightness that bit against the civilian's ears, clawed at the remainders of their resolve. "Round's on us, guys." Barney thought he sounded like his father, an army vet with no tolerance for little boys who wanted to be soldiers, who dressed up as superheroes in garish colors and looked at other boys as they would at little girls.

A rough pat on his shoulder, a wince, another charming smile with edges like ice and fire, and something rolled sick and sweet and afraid inside of Barney's stomach. It clawed inside him, pushed at the cage of his chest until his heart felt the shadow of its stuttering frenzy, the near stop when a ghost had screamed and writhed in the darkness of a graveyard.

Damien stared into amber pools he wished he could submerge himself in, and felt the steady heat of the thin man beside him, the uneven breathing of his best friend, the shaky hands of his partner in the edges of his vision.

"See you around guys," Sam murmured, his eyes sliding off of Damien and Barney as if they didn't exist, only another part of the long blur of lives his world had corrupted, nightmares he had created.

Damien swallowed down his residual fear and tried to turn to see them off, his body stiff and resistant to his wants. The bar was dark, shadows slipping off of shadows and wrapping around the strangers that had saved his life, like they belonged to the blackness, the underside of the world, and he caught the soft brightness of blue eyes trained on green, the woman watching for some silent cue from the shorter man. The lingering look spoke more than either of them had in the time Damien had known them (the taller man already starting for the door, with his shoulders slumped in), though they were all nameless blurs of cocky smiles and grave dirt in his mind.

"Hey, how-how did you know how to do that?" he asked, his voice hoarse and worn, his body heavy and his mind clinging to the fragile hope that this was all a dream. The tallest of the two frowned, his lips moving soundlessly for a moment, trying out words Damien and Barney would never hear, before he seemed to find the safest route, the most stable ground.

"We, uh, we read the books," he supplied lamely, his eyes a perfect mask, impenetrable hazel. He and the other man turned, walking towards the door with the same purpose they carried with them everywhere, like they knew all the secrets the world had to offer, understood its arcane languages and signs.

The woman lingered a moment, her face a soft kind of bitterness, swept away in memories they couldn't see and times when things were simple and she rolled in the grass and tried to count the stars, before she'd seen past the veil. All hunters remember their awakening more so than they would like; they remember the way dead things screamed and how a shovel felt heavy in their hands.

"You guys did okay," she said finally, her voice a slow kind of music, that fell over you in drifts and made you remember all the things you'd left behind in your life; a father back in Berkley county who didn't like Nancy boys, a road stop on I-23 where the leaves fell like snow and blanketed the road in brilliant messages of fire, friends and family who had been set to sleep in an earthen embrace. "Don't go looking for this, you didn't do _that_ well. But considering, you were okay." The smile she gave them was shaky and small, but it seemed to say more than others.

Barney's mouth set to working, but the words stayed lodged in his throat, refusing to be heard, to be given weight.

She raised her hand, half a wave, half an aborted pat on Barney's bony shoulder, and jogged away, her hair fanning out behind her, caught on a makeshift wind like wing beats. They watched her go with hollow eyes, another set of souls that had witnessed too much, another group of people tainted and stained by the touch of darkness she resided in.

Kat's weak smile dropped the moment she turned, the bitter scent of vomit still curling through her mind and reminding her of another she was meant to save, to prevent from being submerged in a world they couldn't control, to be haunted by things they only thought they saw on the edges of their vision. Sometimes she could still hear her sister scream.

Dean and Sam were waiting as patiently as they could just beyond the threshold of the bar, twitching with the need to have a blurring landscape moving with them again. Dean's face was a fractured mask, perfect to anyone who hadn't seen beneath it already and witnessed the twisted agony that festered just beneath the surface. Kat could nearly taste it when he met her gaze, the need to escape the reality of all his mistakes, sins, stumbles thrown back at him over and _over_. He couldn't keep seeing distorted mirrors of himself rambling their way through his most painful memories, couldn't glance at another 'Mary' or 'Azazel' or 'Sam'. Couldn't take the way people dressed as his brother trailed behind their Fake Dean counterparts like lost puppies and turned in time with a play Dean had written with his footsteps.

She couldn't understand what that felt like, resting comfortably on the surface of a story she'd only gleaned information from, but Kat could see the way pain curled in his chest and beat in its own rhythm. She could feel the way _he _jerked away from touch, instead of her, when she brushed against his arm as they began the short walk towards the front door, where an escape on four wheels called to a hunter who'd rather leave the past behind.

She couldn't understand, so she stayed quiet, and followed Dean, Sam at her side and faring no better, mind a river of tainted blood and choices that left him no better than an addict on the side of the road, a knife across skin instead of a needle into it. Mistakes that tipped the scales and mounted against him, sickly sweet and the flavor of a fallen hero.

Kat walked softly, the heels of her boots whispering against the hardwood and body poised and _so careful_ not to touch Dean and sharpen all the memories already biting into his soul. It seemed like the brothers were bleeding into the air, both of their pasts nipping at their heels and their thoughts nearly audible in the spaces between them, in the words they weren't saying, silence like a scream.

"Hey Chuck!" Dean barked, snapping all the tenuous threads that kept them silent with a bitter casing to his words. "Good luck with the _Supernatural_ books. And fuck you very much." He clapped the slight man on the shoulder and left him iced-over with a cold glare.

Kat trailed behind, stopped long enough for one last lingering look into eyes as infinite as the sky, her fingers twitching slightly with the anxiety his gaze pushed into her.

"I will find out," she hissed, finally, seeing past the thin veneer of nervousness and into a man who wasn't a man at all, some omniscient power that consumed and twisted the very fabric of humanity between his fingers. "Maybe I already have," Kat murmured to herself, a considering look washing over his thin frame.  
>She nodded to herself, chewed the inside of her mouth and swirled the notion around inside her head, turning back to follow Dean and Sam in one fluid motion that made it seem like she didn't touch the ground. Her steps ghosted behind the brothers.<p>

She felt like she would pass through Dean if she touched him, phasing through as if she didn't have a body at all, as if she didn't exist. When she slammed into Dean's solid back in front of an unyielding door, she bit back a yelp of surprise, jerked back to the real world with a mumbled curse from Dean and the sound of a lock being forced. It stuck, seemed held shut by invisible hands on the other side, a metaphysical army barring it shut with the hands of so many men.

Trapping them inside.

Kat moved quickly, shoved Dean aside with a jut of her hip against his and the eccentric flutter of her hands, shooing him back as she kneeled before the lock, pick held nimbly in her fingers. Her thumb swiped over the metal, catching on the jagged teeth curved inward. She poked at it contemplatively with her lock pick.

"It's not locked, not welded on the inside, it's just not moving," she reported, eyes narrowed on the tarnished metal. "Something's keeping us in."

Her voice was grave, heavy and solid like the click of a lock.

"That's…weird," Dean said softly, tasting the words on his tongue and realizing their insufficiency, how little they encompassed that age-old coil of fear in his stomach that panged with lost innocence and children with hollow eyes and graves he passed over in favor of another. He hated missing things, even when grave dirt dug deep beneath his nails and he smelled faintly of lighter fluid and bones, and digging up children's graves for extra measure seemed like beating a dead horse.

Always wrong.

"Definitely," Sam noted, digging his fingers beneath the window pane closest to him and trying to pry it open, stained glass bruising his skin with strange patterns of light.

Dean watched his brother with wary eyes, unsurprised when the window didn't budge and a pit slowly yawned open in his stomach, cold, coiled anxiety spreading slowly through his chest as he moved on automatic. He tried every window he could find, disregarding the beautiful pictures the colored shards made pieced together in favor of the night outside, the open air he'd tasted only minutes before.

Kat slammed her hand against the door, thick wood refusing to even shudder beneath the force, pick dangling uselessly from the lock's cradle. A snarl curled her lips borne from the carnal fear that writhed in her chest, whispered of mistakes and lives lost and the unknown she couldn't decipher. Dangerous and terrible in the arms of darkness, indistinguishable evil hidden away.

"Every exit's locked," Sam reported, fingers beginning to bruise in sharp lines from the edges of windows. "This is bad."

Dean leveled him with a flat look. "Gee, you think, Sammy?"

Xx

A scream tore through the uneasy softness blanketing the hotel, stormed through quiet laughter and the sound of shot glasses hitting the bar top, ripped strange fantasy from the seams and launched the hunters back into a reality they knew how to operate in. A hunt was easy to breathe around, a flavor of desperation they were acquainted with.

"Don't go in there," the Leticia Gore impersonator breathed, her voice a desperate crack of panic and her hands shaking, trembling. The hunters pushed through into the room. The same heavy feeling old hotels and inns often carry in their dark walls and dusty bookcases blanketed the area.

"_Why'd you do that? Why'd you send my mommy away?"_

The voice was the same whisper on the wind, cold breath down the back of a neck, toe-curling and skin-tingling, the hysterical edge to a fear you don't understand. The animalistic instinct to run.

The little boy stood in the center of the room, blood oozing steadily from a wound that no longer pained his earthly body and curling in nearly elegant patterns down across his neck and staining the skin red in its wake. His hands hovered close to his ears, as if he would press down and pretend the world wasn't real, and he could block it all out. Kat watched his eyes, so hidden inside of dark bruised caverns, flicking desperately across the three of them, skidding to a halt on her as if she could answer. Could wrap him up in her arms and sing him to sleep like, she imagined, his mother would.

"Because of the high and tight she gave you? How 'bout some thanks?" Dean asked, something constricting in his chest. "I'm just saying that a little gratitude would be nice once in a while." He thought of Stockholm syndrome and people who still loved family that was dark and twisted and belonged in the underside of the world, beneath the rug where all the dirt and grime was swept. Sam shot him a sharp look, but Kat's eyes hadn't strayed from the ghost. Their calm blue seemed shattered, like an azure sea had been frozen and smashed beneath the weight of the world itself.

"She was hurting people," Kat said softly, dropping to a squat to be on the boy's level, a hand reaching out without her knowledge, trying to bridge the gap between their worlds and offer him something he could hold onto. He was so lost, so bent up and twisted by the fabric of reality and stained red with a young death and she wanted to help him. She just wanted to help. "She hurt you. We couldn't let her hurt anyone else."

Dean thought Kat's soothing voice could lift a weight from his shoulders, could take the pressure away, tumbling over all the walls he erected so carefully with only the slightest falter in her inherent control. Her comfort would catch itself on the vulnerable side of him, stabilize inside his very soul and set about rebuilding him from the ground up, and he could so easily let her do it.

But no.

No one could see him broken, fractured and drawn out in long screams and dark webs that remembered Hell more clearly than what he had for breakfast that morning. As tempting as it was to imagine collapsing in the strong cage of her arms and admitting that he wasn't quite so strong, he couldn't let it happen. Any more than he could allow himself to love her, lust after her, chase dreams of laying kisses in her hair or on the tip of her nose to watch her crinkle her face like a rabbit. If something in him ached at the thought, reached out blindly for someone to fill that secret void in his heart Sam could never occupy, he would ignore it. Because that was what he did.

What he would always do.

"_My mommy didn't do this to me! My mommy didn't hurt anyone!"_

The boy's frenzied words made Dean think of school counselors staring down his bruises and asking about how close he was to John, what their lives were like and the justified anger that caught quick on his veins and made him burn from the inside. And the way he knew his father wouldn't hurt him, despite growing up around the cold, dead look in his eyes when he killed something, and the blood that so often stained his clothes irrevocably. It was just something he _knew_, and that would never change.

"We believe you, buddy," he said softly, watching an anxious confusion cast over the little boy's eyes, wondering who to trust, who he could lean on when he was so afraid. So much to fear without a mother's protection.

"Then. Who did?" Sam asked, his voice wary and seeping with hesitancy as he stared down the shadow of a boy, dressed primly in a uniform with blood crusted behind his ear.

Another scream, this one bitten to the tang of blood on a man's lips and his dying breath spent out on noise without syllables and high-pitched lightning without words. Kat thought she would hate for her last words to be wasted on a scream. She would rather lock it deep inside her chest until her veins were humming with the cry of fear and agony and panic, and say something in parting.

She'd thought about death too much, she realized, as she skidded around a corner of the darkened motel. The rug kicked up at the corner with her movements, the heel of her boot slipping dangerously on hardwood. She wondered how things might have changed if she didn't. If death was abstract and strange to her mind and the impossibility of its reality was like in the Disney films Bobby had pushed at her when she moved into his house, a temporary thing. Able to be reversed at the second when it seemed the most final.

The German man from the convention was splayed out, wound gaping a hello to the hunters and he wouldn't be brought back. No fairy tale ending or lover's kiss good morning. Only the lingering whisper of a final breath on his lips.

Kat tried not to wonder what he'd be doing, if they hadn't freed the boys from Gore's control. Would he be opening book four to the place he'd bookmarked for the thousandth time, just before his favorite part? Was he going to reread it again that night and pick up nuances and hints he'd missed before, find little twitches in his characters that gave them such perfect depth and made them real?

Dean and Sam stared down at pooling blood and frozen terror, a dream realized from the stiff pages of paper backs, never seen with living eyes, never traced over with the critical scrutiny only number one fans and editors could give. A plastic hook lay separated from his clawed hand, frozen in place and reaching back for its hold, a large-brimmed hat tipped near it with blood staining its dark felt.

Kat's eyes scanned the thick red and lingered on ripped skin and long hair draped awkwardly from the roots around his neck, disconnected from the flap of skin and angry red muscle and blood. She hated scalpings, hated that she'd seen more than one.

Her life was so messed up.

She was just glad no one could read her thoughts, see the scrolling details and comparisons of cut marks and how far back it went, the force it would take to rip that far, and leave most of it dangling by the barest threads. Not strong enough to make it real, to rip it from the whole and complete the shame in losing, the honor in adding the skin to a belt, in victory.

"Always with the sick cases," she muttered, forcibly stopping herself from toeing at his still-lax corpse, rigor hours away from creeping into muscles and the body was lax enough to roll with her motion, as if he would suddenly stretch out in a slow yawn and wake from his nap.

But no. Just another ghost to join the others, and play inside another realm she'd brushed against, thought about, tasted on the tip of her tongue and had the flavor dragged away by a clean intake of air. She breathed deeply, Dean following the movement with curious eyes, and tried to drag herself back to life by the tang of oxygen and the clarity of the night.

Xx

"Well guys, I guess we're out of time. Thanks for all the probing and rigorous questions…have a good night," Chuck finished lamely, an air of relief seeping into skin and affecting his body language, making his shoulders loosen for the first time since Dean had met him, the weasel-like features of his face fading back as the circles beneath his eyes became pronounced.

Kat bounded onto the makeshift stage with the elegance of a dancer, the feral tinge of a hunter in the roughness of it, a combination that left Dean reeling. He watched the way her thin body moved beneath the cage of her leather jacket, and noted the click of her boots in some secret part of his heart, to recognize it when the staccato played in the early hours of the morning, stop him from reaching for a knife if he heard it before fully waking.

She whispered low and fast in Chuck's ear, seemed reluctant to get too close, as if looking in his eyes would swallow her, lost inside a blue not as bright as her own. Deeper maybe, but Dean thought her eyes shown with something like white lightning. Something fierce and untamed.

"Wha- _Holy crap!_" Chuck shrieked into his mike, pushing it away from his face a moment later with hands that trembled, knuckles white and his eyes skating across every startled face in the crowd.

"Just keep them occupied for a little while longer, we need to keep these people safe," she whispered fervently. Dean watched the shape of her mouth as it formed the words, saw the texture of her hand gestures become frenzied and worried as Chuck grew agitated, some arcane anxiety in the way she leaned away from him.

"How the _hell _am I supposed to do that?!"

"I don't know! Just do it," she hissed, running a hand through her hair and the spotlight making heat crawl up the back of her neck. The weight of eyes on her was physical, the drawn-out touch of a monster trailing the tips of claws across her skin, so close to deadly.

"Who's that?" An audience member asked, head tipped to the side and fake mullet catching the shine of light. "New character?"

A pause.

"_Yes._ Yes it is!" Chuck said brightly, wrapping a thin hand around her forearm with a grip strangely vice-like, solid as it held her suspended in place, on stage where time had no meaning and the seconds dragged by.

She locked eyes with Dean, her gaze wounded and open and desperate. He grinned, ran a hand through his short hair and mouthed '_We got this_' and left her poised on the head of a pin, her jacket too hot to stay in and her skin white and marred beneath its concealing safety. It slipped from her shoulders like water against a pane of glass, rolled away with a stiff movement that left the leather slung over Chuck's stool and her fingers catching the ancient silver rings on her hands and twisting to give her something to do, to keep her from resting against the knife she kept on her, the gun.

"So," Chuck started again, seemingly revived by some manic energy writers must have bred into their souls. "How do you guys feel about angels? Because they're not as lame as you think."

Kat stepped slightly to the side as Chuck laid out the road already traveled by the two men ushering the staff into the convention room, the pair smiling cheaply at disgruntled faces and shooting amused glances at her when their eyes met. She looked uncomfortable, fit wrong inside her own skin and pulling at scars so few knew were real. The audience marveled in soft whispers at the careful application of her make-up, wondering how a character had garnered them.

The fans watched her carefully, traced their eyes down her thin and deceivingly delicate form, to rest on the corded strength of her arms. When she shifted, and a strand of her hair slipped along the white-cream of her collar bone, they could see the barest twitch of tightly packed muscles, and their gaze wrapped around her torso in an imitation of embrace. Their eyes fell against the gentle wrinkles in the black tank top that hugged her so tightly, and skimmed along the start of her jeans, caught on the rusty stains on the knees. They stopped on the well-worn scuff of her boots, and the tense hostility in her stance: defensive.

Time crawled by, measured by the increments of breathing, her own a forced steady and Chuck's a breathless whisper into the mike that made static rebound around the audience. She winced, tried to resist rubbing at her temples, and wondered if she could lull herself into a dream state to the rhythm of Chuck's ramblings. Should she bother to pay attention to the way his mind flitted from one subject to the next like an agitated bird? Bother to listen to the roundabout way he spoke, find a balance of hint and summary to introduce a character whose role was just beginning to unfurl before his eyes and behind them, twisting inside the strange fabric of reality his mind had created and the Winchesters had confirmed.

It must be terrifying to live like that, never knowing if your delusions had just bled through into the real world and tainted everything you thought you knew, perverse hallucinations that smelled of gunpowder and metal and every detail you'd ever written.

Kat's eyes traced the ceiling and she wondered if children played inside the walls, in the spaces between Here and Gone, if they played bloody games before Gore's son had been scalped by them, boys he considered playmates. She wondered about afterlives, and how much of yourself would be lost along the way without a purpose, kept only by the duty to protect the orphanage, the people inside it, from children without souls, selfish and black at the center. Inhuman.

It seemed clear now, the way Gore's son had looked believing, convinced in his mother's love in the way only children can be, even in death, untainted by the world and its doubts.

"So who's that? Are you going to answer us, man?" Someone asked loudly, agreement rolling through the crowd as if on newly broken waves in the morning, the gentlest of the day lapping against the shores, before whitewater and surf filled the shallows.

"This," Chuck said brightly, that enveloping gleam in his eyes that seemed to swallow everything burning just beneath the surface. "Is Kat. Kat, say hi."

She waved, unfamiliar heat crawling up the back of her neck to rest uncomfortably on her cheeks, her eyes catching the end of a snicker from Sam, towering over the crowd at the back, pausing in deep discussion with out how to make it out locked doors, finding a way to distract the fevered minds of murderous children.

"I think she'd be the best to answer the questions about herself. Go for it, Kat," Chuck proclaimed happily, eagerly twitching out of the spotlight, tension slipping from him as the shadow embraced his form.

Kat sighed, scrubbed tiredly at her eyes, and tried not to think about beds, about the weight of Dean's arms around her waist, anchoring her to soft sheets and easy dreams she couldn't remember in the morning, didn't wake from until the first crack of dawn split the sky.

"Who are you?"

"Where'd you get the scars?"

"Nice make-up, by the way!"

"Which of them do you fall in love with?"

"When do you die?"

"Okay, okay, _alright_," she snapped, looking up again with quick fire sparked in her eyes and spreading to her posture, pushing her shoulders back until the edges of her scars found depth, like the most delicate relief sculpture in Rome, carved from unrelenting white marble, split so easily by the right tools and etched into permanence.

The room fell silent, like a hand suffocating a speaker, the noise squashed down under her sharp eyes, hovering on the edge of uncaring and terrified and used to be being in the background. A stage was foreign, tasted like sweat and desperation, dripped from the brows of all the people that needed a crowd to feel like they were alive at all. She liked the shadow, night that wrapped around her easily, when she lived inside it for so long, forgot blue sky existed in the eleven years when metal sheeting and living ink-spots of shadow were her only entertainment.

But that wasn't bad.

That settled easy on her skin and kissed her goodnight in the easy way she used to sleep before she met the sky again, bent out from exhaustion and a stranger to dreams and nightmares alike. Her years hidden away had not made her hate the dark.

She loved it like only a hunter could, when it saved her from questions and the law and the glaring reality of her work; grave dirt flung beneath the sun never felt the same way beneath the vigil of a full moon.

"My name is Katherine, that's all anybody needs to know. The scars are my business, Sam and Dean don't know either, even though they wonder. Everyone wonders. Some say I was bitten, infected by a werewolf or some other creature and have been able to conquer it, tame the beast inside to my own will. Those people might be wrong, they might not. Either way I'm with the boys now, traveling, chasing something both of us had hoped was dead, both of us want to kill more than we can ever really explain. Once that's done, maybe I'll stay. Dean seems to like me well enough, since our pasts manage to share a twining road. Enough to make us pause and try to read out each other, anyway. As far as I know, I'm alive. But in this line of work, I have no illusions to the staying power of that sentiment. I could die at any moment. Hopefully I'll go saving someone else. Hopefully someone will bother to miss me." She paused, and the words seemed to taste bitter in her own mouth when she spoke them, a grim twist of her lips and a hard sort of memory in her eyes.

"But you can't get everything you want."


End file.
